


Winchester Ghost Tours

by Pegacorn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - You've Got Mail Fusion, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Destiel - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Online Relationship, Panties Kink, Sexting, Skype Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 72,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegacorn/pseuds/Pegacorn
Summary: Dean may have just met the perfect man on a dating app. If only the rest of his life was going so well. A new construction company comes to town and threatens to end his successful family business — Winchester Ghost Tours. Dean’s forced to deal with the infuriatingly practical Castiel Novak to convince him in the supernatural in order to persuade him to change his company’s plans before it’s too late for Dean’s company. (Heavily inspired by “You’ve Got Mail” replacing AOL with sexting)





	1. Sex and  Taxes

It's obviously photoshopped and staring up at Dean.

"Dammit, you touched my phone," says Dean. "You don't fuck with someone's phone, dude."

"I thought you'd appreciate the change," says Sam.

Dean holds up his illuminated phone and points the screen at Sam. The background has been changed to Dean's official company headshot, copy-pasted onto a huge bodybuilder who is tan, oiled, and wearing a yellow thong. "Not cool. I thought we had a truce?"

"I'm the one who called a truce after you fucked with my laptop," says Sam, shooting an angry scowl. "You changed my homepage to your favorite porn site."

"How was I 'sposed to know you had to give a presentation that evening..."

"Every student in my Ethics of Law class saw it," says Sam, angry glare not abating. "Professor Chang was not pleased."

"That was just an unfortunate coincidence, I didn't realize that your professor," Dean's words fade away. He clears his throat and meets Sam's eye. "So, uh, we're even, then? You didn't do anything else, like download a buncha weird apps?"

Sam shrugs with a smirk.

Dean bites his cheek. The glance at his phone is automatic. How much snooping had Sam done, exactly?

"I don't know if we're  _even_ , but okay," says Sam. He rolls his eyes, but he's fighting a smile. His attention returns to the nineteen-inch television on the counter of the shop.

Sam walks across the faded, wooden floor, every board creaking under his boots. Sam usually dresses nicer for class, but that night he's working with Dean and opts for a casual shirt over dark jeans complete with a faded blue jacket. Dean's style is similar with plaid over jeans and his favorite leather jacket.

"Today, Angel Construction announced it would be holding its official public press conference. The head of the new Savannah branch of this multi-million dollar construction company plans to unveil the upcoming projects right here in Savannah. The event is open to the public and begins tomorrow evening at five o'clock outside the Marshall Building..."

"Would you turn that shit off?" Dean calls across the open room.

The shop is located on the main floor. Faded wallpaper, outdated wall sconces, and antique photos line the walls. A large, brick fireplace and wooden mantel dominate one corner. A long counter with a computer and cash register crowds the other wall. A few old wooden benches circle the exterior walls, providing customers a place to sit and wait.

"I'm watching it," says Sam.

"You can't be serious, supporting those assholes," says Dean, giving his phone one last glance before shoving it into his back pocket.

"My professor's offering us extra credit if we attend the conference," says Sam. "Getting involved in local government, and what not."

"Makes me sick, them buying whole blocks of property," says Dean.

"They were offering a good price," says Sam.

"Yeah, well, I ain't selling. Non-negotiable, never, nu uh," says Dean.

"You're stuck in the wrong mindset," says Sam, shaking his head. "Whatever Dad made you promise, he wasn't psychic, he couldn't foresee the housing market or how good the offer would be..."

"It's not about the money," says Dean, straightening his shoulders. "It's the principle."

"Where's Garth?" asks Sam, turning away from the screen.

"Just you and me tonight, Sammy."

"Full house?" asks Sam.

"I wish," says Dean, shrugging. "No big deal, there's always a lull between Halloween and Spring Break."

"Yeah," says Dean. Sam's puppy eyes, full of sympathy, are an annoyance. "I'm gonna grab a shower. Watch the phones for me?"

"Yeah, okay," says Sam, but it's unclear if he even heard. He's staring at the screen where a newscaster drones on about some local farmers market.

Dean walks upstairs into the apartment above the shop. Probably too small for two men, especially a giant like Sam, but it's home. The main room acts as living room, dining area, and kitchen combined. The decor of empty beer bottles, framed band posters, and mismatched furniture suggests they're college students.

It's true for Sam, but Dean's twenty-seven and got out with a GED.

The disheveled stack of paper on their table draws Dean's attention. He walks over and frowns at the papers while unbuttoning his shirt. One official looking envelope catches his eye. He removes his shirt and balls it up before picking up the letter.

Tax Collector. This oughta be fun. Dean tosses his dirty shirt in the direction of the communal laundry basket and watches to make sure it goes in before he tears into the envelope.

Proposed property taxes. If he had eaten anything, Dean might have felt nauseous. Instead, he chokes back an angry growl. The property taxes always arrived in November but weren't due until the start of June. Plenty of time to address the problem.

Dean pulls out his phone, cursing at the obnoxious background he's yet to fix. He calls the number listed on the paper.

"City of Savannah Revenue Department, how may I assist you?"

"Look, there's gotta be some kinda mistake," says Dean, shaking out the paper in his hand. "I'm staring at this tax bill, and there's no way this is correct. Last year, the amount rose way too much, but this year it's somehow risen even more? How is that even possible?"

"Do you wish to set up a payment plan? The full amount isn't due until June," says the city employee.

"No, I don't want to set up a fu...no, I want someone to fix this because this is too damn high, there's gotta be some problem."

"The tax value is approximately forty percent of your appraised value..."

"Well, who appraised it, because it's fu...it's wrong," says Dean, gripping his phone so tightly the plastic casing creaks.

"If you wish to contest the appraised value of your property, I can schedule a meeting with an appraiser?"

"Yes, thank you, do that," says Dean.

"Someone can be there tomorrow morning, around ten o'clock?"

After giving his information, Dean hangs up and settles heavily into one of the three mismatched chairs around their antique round table. He stares down at his phone and sighs. He clicks through settings, changing the background back to something generic, and prays Sam didn't look through too much on his phone.

Especially not the new app.

It's no big deal. Not something Dean had planned. It was an impulse, really. Curiosity more than anything else. It's not like there's anything inherently suspicious about a sexually active man downloading a dating app. Dean had used them before.

Just not one exclusively for men seeking men.

Dean looks both ways in the apartment, even though he can hear the television droning on downstairs and Sam's giant feet are incapable of walking upstairs stealthily. Dean clicks the dating app and stares impatiently until it loads.

Dean cringes at the sight of his own profile. Creating it while brown-out drunk was probably a bad idea, but it was the only way he could drum up the courage. He could make a better one when he's sober, he'd reasoned with himself. With a single, shirtless picture, his face obscured, and a tagline of "The Truth Is Out There," Dean's expectations are low.

Which is why it's shocking that he's gotten so many replies over the last couple days. That evening, a bright red '4' appears next to his message icon. Dean presses his lips together to suppress a grin. It's hard not to feel a little proud. He quickly selects to read the new messages.

**Subject: Hi.**

Well, that's not very creative. Not that Dean's come to expect much from the users of this particular service. A quick glance at the man's profile shows a very large, very hairy man with the tagline: "Bear 4 U." The message gets deleted.

**Subject: Top or Bottom?**

Dean knows that romance is dead, but this is a ridiculous new low. Even from someone with the handle "HotCkBoy6969." Delete.

The next message has no subject, and inside is a picture. Of a dick. It's turgid, gripped so tightly in a thick wrist that the head looks angry and purple. Is this really how men attract other men? Hang the worm out there as bait, and wait for a nibble?

Not for the first time, Dean wonders if he shouldn't just stick with man-seeking-woman dating sites.

The last one gives him cause for pause.

**Subject: In regards to casual dating and friendship.**

The strange, formal subject contrasts with the tiny profile pic. It's a man's naked back, all the way down to the swell of his hips. A tiny black stenciled tattoo perches on the small of his back. It resembles a set of extended wings around a strange symbol. Dean clicks for a larger view of the profile picture.

It's definitely a tramp stamp. A tramp stamp on a man. Of course, they can do it, but Dean's never seen one in person. Maybe some tattoos in the lower back area, but this is legit a tramp stamp. It sits right over the ass cheeks, and it's definitely a cheap stencil. Dean's at least curious enough to click on the message.

_Wayward67,_

_I noticed from your profile that you live in the Savannah area. I am new to the city. My status as "out" is not well known outside of the family, but I am interested in meeting men for dating and friendship. This is my first experience with an online dating service, but I have difficulty meeting new people organically due to a demanding work schedule. I'm looking for a friend, and maybe more. If you have similar interests, I would enjoy chatting._

_Thanks in advance,_

_Thursday00_

Is this guy trying to get laid, or hired? It's too tempting to click on the guy's profile and skim over the information. The picture with the tramp stamp conflicts with the professional tone. Maybe it's not his picture—just a picture he likes.

 **Location** : Savannah, GA

 **Age** : 30

 **Interests** : Music, Stargazing, Wine, Mythology

"...could this guy be more generic," mumbles Dean.

"Dean, you done with the shower?" Sam's voice echoes from downstairs. "I wanna run out and grab some dinner."

"Five more minutes," Dean shouts back down the stairs. He locks his phone and goes into the bathroom, turning on the water. Standing under the hot spray, Dean thinks about the strange response. Definitely the best of the batch, but that wasn't saying much.

He thinks about the alluring tattoo while drying himself off with a clean towel. He wonders what kind of music the guy is into while choosing a clean flannel shirt for the evening. The fact that he's still thinking about it once he's dressed and walking downstairs seals it. Dean's ready to write a response before he's even at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm running down to the corner, want me to grab you something?" asks Sam.

"Bring me a burger, the usual," says Dean, walking behind the counter. He pulls up a stool and sits near the shop phone, cellphone in hand.

"Right," says Sam, walking out the front door without another glance.

Dean hurries to open the app and prepares his reply.

_New in town huh? Where r u from? My status of "out" is similar but im def open to meeting guys. I've tried the online thing, new to this site, tho. Ur profile says you're into music so what kind do you like?_

There are other questions—better questions—Dean wishes he could ask. But the door opens and a family of four waltzes through the door.

"Welcome to Winchester Ghost Tours," says Dean, sliding into his most charming smile. "Who wants to see a ghost?"

* * *

"I thought it was gonna rain there for a second," says Sam, forking the last parts of his leftover salad into his mouth. Soggy leaves melt off his plastic fork. Disgusting.

"The way our luck is going, I wouldn't be surprised," says Dean, organizing receipts into neat stacks.

"You keep saying things like that," says Sam, wiping his mouth on a napkin so flimsy it dissolves rather than cleans anything. He gives up and balls the remaining pieces. "You're making me worried like there's something you're not telling me."

"Since when do I need a reason to be pessimistic?" asks Dean. "It's the Winchester way, whatever can go wrong will go wrong."

"At least it didn't rain," says Sam, aiming the balled up napkin at the trashcan. He misses and walks to retrieve it with a sigh. "The night as a whole was a success."

"Yeah," says Dean, starting to punch in the amount of the receipts into the calculator, each additional causing the amount to print out on the tape with a mechanical hum. "Too bad it wasn't a full group, though."

"The holidays bring some traffic, families in town bored," says Sam, dropping the rest of his salad into the garbage. "Not to mention Spring Break is around the corner. We're making enough to get by, though, right?"

"Yeah," says Dean, without hesitation. "Yeah, of course, always."

"So, nothing to worry about," says Sam. His tone is casual, but he's staring at Dean, watching for some tell, some silent admission that he's lying.

Dean plasters on his best, lopsided grin. "Worrying about this place is my job, and only hobby."

Sam stares for a beat too long, before chuckling softly to himself. "You need a new hobby."

Dean returns his attention to the receipts. The tour was a success, even if half the seats were empty. The extra purchases after the tour pushed them into the black. A final keystroke and Dean rips the receipt from the machine and stares. "All done, and a little left over, wanna hit the bar?"

"I don't know, I got class first thing, and I have to go to that community meeting in the evening," says Sam, mussing up his long, brown hair as he scratches his head.

"You're no fun, how can you even call yourself a college student?" asks Dean.

"I'm in Law School, it's different, besides, it's Wednesday, okay, no one goes out on a Wednesday," says Sam.

"Your point?"

In the end, Sam goes upstairs, and Dean goes the bar—alone. Sam claims he'll study and go to bed early, but Dean suspects he'll spend the majority of the time binging Netflix using Bobby's login information.

The Roadhouse is always a welcome place, no matter the day of the week. There are always regulars crowding the bar area, tourists sitting down in the booths, and guys with leather jackets and handlebar mustaches shooting pool. Dean makes his way to a seat on the side of the bar, close to the liquor bottles lining the wall.

"Well, well, Mr. Ghost Hunter, whatd'ya have for me tonight, eh?" asks a lanky guy in a trucker cap and a mullet as he jumps onto the stool beside Dean.

"Whatcha drinking tonight, Dean?" asks the middle-aged brunette behind the bar ."You want me to chase Ash away?"

"Nah, I have some business to discuss with our boy," says Dean, putting on a charming smile. "I'll take a pour of the usual—make it a double."

Ellen walks away, grabbing a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the back wall and reaching for a thick glass. Dean reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a digital camera.

"It ain't much," says Dean, sliding the camera to Ash. "Only took pics at the cemetery and the Pirate House, then had to pack it away."

"Why would you do that? Before the Marshall House? After that great halo we got last week?"

"Sorry, man, looked like rain, so I packed it away," says Dean, shrugging. "I can't really afford a new camera right now, so I gotta keep it safe."

Ellen drops off the whiskey and Dean spares her a grin and a wink before pulling the glass to his lips. Ellen tends to flash concerned glances when he orders too many drinks in an evening. That's why Dean carries his flask.

"Sam's picking his nose in this one," says Ash, holding the camera out for Dean to see the preview image. Sam, mid-scratch.

"Hah," says Dean, grinning. He takes another sip before Ash speaks again.

"Oh, man, that's an orb," says Ash, holding the camera out again. It's a shot of the tour group walking through the cemetery. Dean shot the pictures as he walked, barely bothering to aim. In the light from a background street lamp, a white orb hovers.

"Hey, no shit, gotta save it for the wall," says Dean, nodding at the camera.

"That's the second one this month, the graveyard is really picking up in activity, did you guys take the EMF reader?"

"Yeah, of course, always," says Dean.

"And was it going insane?!"

"I was...busy, there were a lot of little kids, so I had to talk fast, and constantly keep an eye on them, since their lazy ass parents weren't..."

"Oh, man, this is amazing, you're getting great stuff," says Ash, quickly navigating back through the picture files until he stops with a loud whistle.

"More orbs?" asks Dean, raising his eyes.

"No, it's a shirtless dude, and whoa..."

Dean grabs the camera back. "That's the end of picture time."

"If that's you, you're a good-looking guy, you work out, or what?"

"Stop," says Dean.

"...there's nothing wrong with a dude telling a dude he's sexy," says Ash.

"I don't want to hear that from you, ever," says Dean.

"Oh, right, hey, I wanted to tell you, I got a lead. I know you said you were in a money crunch and needed a scenic haunt closer to home. Well, how do you feel about Saint Augustine, Florida, and lighthouses?"

"Uh, you'll have to send me the information," says Dean. "I might be focusing on the book starting again real soon. If it's a good location, it's just a bonus that it's close."

"Exactamundo," says Ash, shooting a pair of finger guns. "Where's Sam?"

"Early night, just grabbing one drink, then pushing out, myself," says Dean.

"I'll shoot you an email," says Ash, tapping the bar top before moving away into the crowd near the pool table.

Email. Dean pulls out his phone, immediately clicking on the dating app icon. More messages.

Another picture of a dick. Charming. Delete. CckGuzzlerGA wants to know if Dean's interested in a gangbang. Not only is Dean not interested, he's a little afraid. Delete. The last unchecked message makes him grin.

_Wayward67,_

_I enjoy playing music—I play the piano and the harp. The harp is my favorite. I have been playing since I was a child. I enjoy playing different styles of music. My current job does not allow me anytime to practice. Are you also a musician?_

_Sincerely,_

_Thursday00_

Dean glances around the room. Ellen's busy behind the bar, chatting up customers. Most people are busy watching the basketball game on the televisions in the corners, playing pool, or involved in their own conversations. It's safe. Dean pushes a few buttons and prepares to respond before he's stopped.

Thursday00 is online.

Hmm. Dean pulls up the message function, instead.

 **Wayward67** : hey

 **Thursday00** : Good evening.

 **Wayward67** : I meant I like music as in listening to music. Mostly classic rock. U really play the harp?

 **Thursday00** : I'm afraid my knowledge of Classic Rock is limited, but I do appreciate all forms of music. I play the harp, though it is sitting in storage at the moment. My move to Savannah is recent—I'm still getting settled.

 **Wayward67** : I have been here my whole life

 **Thursday00** : I enjoy this city, thus far.

 **Wayward67** : it's alright

 **Thursday00** : What do you do for fun around here?

 **Wayward67** : depends on ur definition of fun

 **Thursday00** : What do *you* like to do for fun?

 **Wayward67** : hang at the bar, shoot pool, Riverside is run to walk around, if u can avoid tourists

 **Thursday00** : Your profile says you enjoy Microbrews. Are you familiar with the Moon River Brewing Company?

 **Wayward67** : beer is good, place is trendy, tho. I go there sometimes for work

 **Thursday00** : What do you do for work?

 **Wayward67** : sorry, internet stranger danger, not sure I'm supposed to tell u that

 **Thursday00** : You're afraid I might be a sexual predator?

 **Wayward67** : R u?

 **Thursday00** : No.

 **Wayward67** : Just what a sexual predator would say

 **Thursday00** : You don't believe me?

 **Wayward67** : jk ur one of the only dudes on this app to send an actual message so ur probably not a predator. Most of this site seems to think all they gotta do is send a dick pic

 **Thursday00** : I have encountered those users, as well. I appreciate the male form, and I love a good photograph, but as a greeting, it can be uncomfortable. I much prefer your profile picture.

 **Wayward67** : I like ur pic too nice ink

 **Thursday00** : A drunken mistake I have learned to embrace.

 **Wayward67** : It makes for a nice pic much classier than 'how u doin here's my junk'

 **Thursday00** : Is it even possible to make a 'dick pic' classy?

 **Wayward67:**  need some filters, turn it black and white. Instant class.

 **Thursday00** : Very film noir.

 **Wayward67** : gotta figure out the best angle to make it look bigger

 **Thursday00** : Or, in my case, to make it look smaller. I wouldn't want to scare away any potential partners.

Dean reads the incoming message and laughs out loud before he catches himself. Too late. Ellen is giving him a knowing grin from across the bar.

Shit.

Dean shoves his phone into his pocket and attempts to look nonchalant.

"Good to see someone making you smile," says Ellen. She picks up the empty glass in front of Dean and holds it up. "One and done?"

"Yeah," says Dean, adjusting on his stool to get his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Someone special, then?" asks Ellen.

"Oh, nah, just Sam attempting to be funny," says Dean, clearing his throat. He counts out enough bills to cover the cost, plus tip, and flops them on the bar top.

"Talking to your brother is making you grin and blush? That'd be a scandal, Winchester," says Ellen, smirking. "You don't gotta keep secrets from me, son. Jo and I have both been worried about you since the big break up."

"I noticed our girl was absent," lies Dean, smiling at his smooth topic change, "how's my second favorite bartender?"

"She's out with a fella, third date," says Ellen, putting both hands on the bar and slouching. "Might be gettin' serious."

"That's great," says Dean, "I'm really happy for her."

"Hopefully he treats her better than the last two jerks," says Ellen, standing up with a sigh.

"Have a great night, Ellen, and tell Jo I said hey," says Dean, standing up.

It's only a few blocks, but Dean walks the entire way, hands in his pockets and eyes downcast. Sitting at the bar, flirting with a guy over a dating app. What a perfect invitation to get the Roadhouse regulars interested in his damn private life. Never good.

Dean takes the steps two at a time. The porch creaks and moss hanging from the twisted oak out front sways in the breeze. People often comment that heir family home looks haunted. A spooky house is good for business and saves money on repairs.

Quiet. The store's shut down, and no light comes from upstairs. Dean walks up as silently as possible, peeking slowly around the corner into the apartment.

Soft snores float down the hall. Dean breathes a sigh of relief before walking over to the lumpy sofa and dropping down. He makes sure the snoring continues before pulling out his phone.

Thursday00: That was only a joke, I hope I haven't caused any alarm.

Dean bites his knuckle to keep from laughing loud enough to wake Sam.

Wayward67: hey sorry about that I was out earlier, home now, and that wouldn't scare me away, though I'm more curious about the rest of ur body

An icon pops up on the screen and a loading bar begins to fill. Dean looks around the room, staring at the phone in confusion. Then a new message comes through, and it's a photo.

The lighting is bad, and it's obviously taken using a phone and a mirror. The person is only visible from the neck down, but damn. Dean stares, dumbfounded. The person is twisted to display part of his back, enough that the angel wing tattoo is recognizable. His toned chest is also visible—tanned skin with a light spattering of dark hair fully on display.

A liquid heat snakes through Dean's insides at the sight. He stares—what choice is there? The upper hemisphere of those as cheeks is painfully hot. The definition in the abdominal and pectoral muscles. Dean appreciates a man that works out—he hits the weights himself.

 **Wayward67** : u r so sexy

 **Thursday00** : Do you need proof that it is me?

 **Wayward67** : I believe u

Dean exits the app and brings up his phone's camera, changing the setting to forward facing. He unbuttons his jeans and pauses when he sees the lacy top of that day's chosen undergarments. Well, if the guy was going to freak out about a dude in panties might as well get it over with. Dean lets his jeans hang to reveal the black lacy top of the day's pink panties with black trim.

In an attempt to show as much skin as possible, Dean tries to hold his shirt in one hand, and his camera in the other. He grunts in frustration as the actions prove incompatible. Biting the edge of his shirt to keep it raised, Dean uses two hands to angle the photo to show his bare torso and peeking panties. He flexes his muscles a little. Gotta put forth a good first impression. Once he has a few good shots, he picks the best one, sets the filter to black and white, and hits send.

A long minute follows.

 **Thursday00** : You were right, a black and white filter is very classy. Your panties look delicious.

 **Wayward67** : u like that? ;)

 **Thursday00** : I very much want to run my tongue over every inch of that skin. And that lace.

Dean swallows, staring at the screen. He types and erases several attempts before settling on his next message.

 **Wayward67** : how bout we meet then?

Minutes tick by and there's no reply. Dean frowns at the phone. He checks to see that Thursday00 is still online, but there's no change.

Well, no big deal, not like Dean hadn't walked away with no notice when he left the bar. Being needy and weird wasn't the way to casual sex. Dean made his way down the hall. Sam's door was cracked open, the sound of snoring a familiar comfort.

Dean walks into his own room, small and neat. He shrugs out of his plaid shirt and jeans. He checks his phone. Nothing. Dean creeps into the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and washes his face. Still no reply. Dean crawls into his own bed wearing only thin pajama pants over his pink and black panties and plugs the phone in on the nightstand.

He checks the messages. He checks the phone's wifi signal. He restarts the app. He checks the messages again. He finally dozes off, still staring sleepily at his phone and fantasizing about using that stencil tattoo for target practice.


	2. Meet the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean researches ways to save the house and meets Castiel.

Dean wakes up to a pounding in his head.

Wait, he hadn’t had  _that_  much to drink. No, not in his head, pounding on the door downstairs.

Dean falls out of bed and stumbles into the hallway. He peers into Sam’s room, but Sam’s missing. Dean throws on a shirt from a stack of clean laundry and changes into the jeans from the previous night. He pushes his hand through his short, dirty-blond hair and takes a deep breath.

_Knock knock knock knock knock…_

“Coming, one minute,” shouts Dean, padding his way barefoot down the stairs adding, much softer, “…ya jackass.”

Dean clears his throat and opens the door, his best smile on his face. “Can I help you?” He sounds more cordial than he feels.

The man at the door is shorter than Dean, wearing nice slacks, a button-down shirt, and black sunglasses. The hair on his head is thinning and his beard is the same color brown with a sprinkling of gray. “Hello, I have a hot date with one…Dean Winchester?”

“I know you?” asks Dean, holding the door open, but keeping his mass planted in front to avoid the person rushing him. Not that he looks all that threatening.

“No, I don’t think so,” says the man, speaking with a slight accent Dean can only assume is some kinda British. “I’m here from the Property Appraiser’s office.”

“Oh, wait, okay, you’re the guy, right,” Dean opens the door wider, and wipes his palm on his jeans before offering his hand. “I’m Dean.”

The man stares at the hand but doesn’t take it. “Crowley. Charmed. The clerk noted you thought there was a problem with your appraised value?”

“Uh, yeah, the value of this place,” says Dean, gesturing at the front porch, as if Crowley might be confused about which property is being discussed, “keeps going up, every year, and I haven’t filed any complaints, but it’s getting ridiculous. This year’s taxes are almost forty percent more than last year.”

“The taxes are based on your home’s appraised value,” says Crowley, as he walks back down the steps without waiting for Dean. He stares at the crumbling condition of the concrete stairs and reaches into his pocket to retrieve a pen and pad.

“I know how taxes work,” says Dean, stepping onto the porch and shutting the door behind himself. At least, he has a basic idea how taxes work. “But it’s going up too quickly, there’s no way that’s realistic, this is some kinda mistake or conspiracy.”

Crowley scribbles something on the pad and walks to the sidewalk before turning to stare up at the house.

Built around the turn of the nineteenth century, the Winchester’s house is brown brick with quaint railings on a wrap-around porch. The wooden accents were once painted white, but the color has yellowed and chipped over time. The left side of the house is rounded, like a castle turret.

There are several square windows, though some are boarded up due to existing leaks. Windows in the subbasement are visible from the sidewalk, and a short concrete stairway leads up to the porch. Above the second floor, a finished attic with two wooden dormer windows crowns the house.

Their father had tried to fix up some of the obvious troubles, such as the outdated electrical wiring, and the crumbling steps, but money was always an issue. The brick was in good shape, despite the other flaws.

Crowley stares up at the large oak tree in the lawn, its branches burdened with moss until it seems on the brink of collapse. He scribbles furiously as Dean joins him on the grass.

“Have you done any considerable improvements to the interior in the past two years? Bathroom or kitchen renovations, new wooden floors?” asks Crowley.

“Nah,” says Dean, shaking his head. “The floors creak a little, the railings need a fresh coat of paint, a couple of the windows leak, and the attic is finished, but part of the roof collapsed a few years ago. We repaired the roof but it’s still a mess.”

Crowley makes no movements to suggest he’s heard, writing away. He eventually puts the pad away, and pulls out a smartphone, typing furiously with two thumbs.

“You need to see the inside?” asks Dean.

“Not necessary,” says Crowley, without glancing up.

“So, are you gonna fix the value? I mean, it’s obviously not worth the amount the property appraiser claims,” says Dean.

Crowley gives a loud sigh as he puts his phone down for a moment and tilts his head as he stares up at Dean. “Did you know that the house just down the street from yours recently sold for over six hundred thousand dollars?”

Dean blinks at the number. “Uh, sure, but that house was larger, and the lawn was kept, and…”

“Other houses in the area, older and in worse condition than yours, are selling for over half a million dollars…”

“That’s asinine, no one should buy this house for that much…”

“Oh, they would, and they could,” says Crowley, a devilish smile on his face as he pops his shades off. “Are you interested in selling?”

“What? No! I just need the house valued correctly, so I can afford the taxes…”

“Well, you were right, your home is valued incorrectly,” says Crowley, punching in a few more numbers to the smartphone. “Considering the recent sales in the area, and the demand placed on this neighborhood, I would say that your house is actually undervalued. I will bump it up in the system to reflect the true value, and you will owe the greater of one hundred percent of your previous value or eighty-five percent of the new appraised value and that means you…actually owe,” Crowley frowns as he punches numbers into his phone again, “…one hundred and forty dollars more than we previously billed.”

Dean stares, unblinking.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get the updated bill to you right quick,” says Crowley, sucking air through his teeth. “Good thing you brought this to our attention.”

“You gotta be kidding me, there’s no way…”

“What do you do for a living, Dean?” asks Crowley.

“I run a business, here, and…” Dean’s words fade away. Crowley leans to the side and stares at the front porch where the sign reading ‘Winchester Ghost Tours’ is predominantly displayed.

“Ghost Tours?” asks Crowley.

Dean nods, eyebrows shooting up his forehead as he stares down Crowley, begging for a comment.

“Well, Mr. Winchester, I don’t tell you how to tour ghosts, and you don’t need to tell me how to appraise a property.”

“There’s gotta be something else we can do, some way to work this out, I couldn’t sell this house for six hundred thousand dollars if I even wanted to, and…”

“Would you consider a deal?” asks Crowley, eyebrows raising. “There’s a private investor, new to town, buying up properties such as this one. He’s paying handsomely for leads on properties. If you were to sell to him, I could ensure you get that amount, if not more, and I’ll even split the finder’s fee with you, seventy-thirty.”

“No dice,” sneers Dean. “This was my father’s house, it’s important to my business, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna be selling it.”

“Then, I’ll get the updated bill to you as soon as possible,” says Crowley. He pockets his phone, replaces his shades, and begins to walk away.

“There’s nothing else I can do?” asks Dean, reaching out to grab Crowley’s elbow. The contact stops the man in his tracks. Crowley turns around and makes an obvious show of looking Dean up and down.

“You’re pretty enough, but if I’m going to put my job at risk to lower your property value, I’m going to need to see the goods up front.”

Dean glares.

“Well, if that’s all…”

“This isn’t fair, asshole.”

“I’m not the enemy here, boy,” says Crowley, pausing to give a sociable smile. “No, you should be blaming Angel Construction. Have you ever heard of gentrification? No? Might want to Google it, later. You see, it’s their fault your property value is rising exponentially. You’d be smart to take the payout, and move somewhere better suited to your needs in a more affordable neighborhood.”

Crowley walks away, and Dean makes no further grabs. He stands, watching, as Crowley gets into a white city vehicle parked on the road, and drives away.

Dean’s best attempt to lower his taxes resulted in a slight increase. Perfect.

“Mother fu…” Dean growls, as a headache he has been ignoring roars to life behind his eyes. He reaches into his pocket, and withdraws his flask, holding it up for a swig. Empty. He holds it over his mouth and shakes, dislodging a few, precious droplets.

Hopeless. In addition to all of the other issues, where is he going to come up with five thousand dollars for taxes?

Dean paces through the store, attempting to put his thoughts in order. Eventually, he gives up. He jumps into the Impala, determined to drive around and let off steam. He ends up where he usually does--Bobby's repair shop, just outside of the historic district.

“No tours tonight?” asks Bobby as soon as Dean walks into the garage area. Bobby’s wearing his blue collared shirt with the Singer Automotive logo over his heart. He’s almost completely covered in dirt and oil. The sleeves are rolled up and he’s leaning halfway inside the popped hood of a 1998 Mustang Cobra.

“Nah, no tours, just needed to get away from the house, clear my head,” mutters Dean. Bobby gives a curt nod.

“Well, I’m all ears,” says Bobby, ducking low under the hood.

“I don’t wanna burden you with all my problems, says Dean. He pauses, leaning against the wall of the garage. He waits a few seconds before burdening Bobby with all of his problems.

“The taxes this year have gone up—again. A lot. I had a meeting with some appraiser who refused to lower the amount. He actually suggested it should be higher. For dad’s place, can you believe it?”

“Well, you’ll find the money, you always do,” says Bobby.

“Where am I gonna get it from?” asks Dean. “I’m almost tapped out here. I’ve got Sam’s student loans looming over my head, law school is only partially covered by his scholarship, the company is doing the same as always, but the royalties…”

“You havin’ more trouble with the publishers?” asks Bobby, craning his neck around the popped hood. “I thought everything was settled back then.”

“No, they’re not withholding, the sales are just…slowing,” says Dean, his chin dropping to his chest. “The book’s over ten years old, Bobby. There won’t be any reprints anytime soon.”

“It makes sense, but…” Bobby pauses, two hands on the front of the car, “I guess I got comfortable thinkin’ that money was a sure thing. You boys’ inheritance.”

“I know, and it shoulda been if I’d been able to finish dad’s list.”

“Don’t go puttin’ that on yerself. John was wrong to put that on your shoulders, just cause the book was his priority, don’t mean it has to be yours. And that’s not all,” Bobby pauses to lick his lips and meet Dean’s eyes, “I wish you would consider selling.”

“What? No, not you too,” says Dean, scowling. “You know the reason I can’t do that, you know about mom, and dad, and…”

“I know what the house means to you—what it meant to your dad, but you don’t need to be saddled with debt for a decrepit old house,” says Bobby.

“What about the ghost tours? I can’t just lose our shop front,” says Dean.

“With enough cash, you can rent out a better storefront, and afford a nicer house outside of old town.”

“Yeah, right,” says Dean.

“You can use the excess to pay off Sam’s college,” says Bobby. “We could afford to buy some new vans to help the business, Heaven knows the ones we use now are on their last legs.”

“Low blow,” says Dean, shrugging against the wall. “We’re not moving. That was dad’s house—mom’s house.”

“And you think they want you strugglin’ to make ends meet, drinkin’ yerself to sleep, worryin’ night and day?”

“I haven’t been drinking that much,” says Dean, kicking at stray gravel on the garage floor. “That appraiser told me this is all Angel Construction’s fault.”

“How ya reckon?”

“They come in and started renovating everything until those of us that’ve been here all our lives can’t even afford our own homes. If those corporate assholes hadn’t gotten a hard-on for Savannah, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“Would you at least think about it?” asks Bobby, sighing. “That’s all I’m askin’ here.” He turns his attention back under the hood.

Dean studies his boots to avoid thinking about Bobby’s statement. Move away from the house where he lived, the house that meant so much to his father? The house where he felt such a strong connection this mother, who died when he was a child.

It can’t happen.

What would Sam say if his childhood home was sold, and their company dissolved? Dean’s already failed Sam in so many ways—he can’t fail in this.

Desperate for a distraction, Dean checks his messages again and sees there’s still nothing from the sexy tattoo guy from the evening before. Out of excuses to linger, Dean decides it’s best to assign blame and meet the enemy head-on.

The sound of metal against metal draws Dean out of his thoughts. “Thanks, Bobby, I’ll think about it,” mutters Dean.

* * *

“What?” asks Dean, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets in an attempt to look more at ease. It falls short. “I’m not allowed to show an interest in public affairs?”

“I mean, you are, it’s just, not your usual thing,” says Sam, wearing nice khakis, a button-down shirt, and tie. It’s one of the outfits he wears to law school functions.

“This is gentrification, it affects me,” says Dean.

“You know what gentrification is?” asks Sam, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course I fucking know what it is,” says Dean, scowling. “It means people coming in here, making this a desirable location, building up the place to make it nicer for said people that move in, and then suddenly, the original residents can’t even afford their own homes.”

“That’s…surprisingly not wrong,” says Sam, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Whatever, it’s fine. Just try not to distract me too much.”

The Marshall House acts as the backdrop for the gathering. It’s a large, four-story building with a faded, orange brick facade in the top two stories along with uniform windows every few feet, each with its own bright green shudder. The second floor is a wraparound porch with decorative arches, every other one adorned with a hanging fern. The ground level opens to the street with shop doors and floor to ceiling windows.

Some of Sam’s classmates stand nearby, and other volunteers and professionals rush around setting up a portable wooden stage. In the center, a podium has been erected with a large sign behind it, featuring the Angel Construction logo—a prominent set of black angel wings around the company’s initials.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes a willowy voice as an older woman steps in front of the podium, tapping the microphone, “it’s my privilege today to introduce our guest speaker, the head of Angel Construction’s new Savannah Division, Mr. Castiel Novak.”

The applause is polite and quickly fades. Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at the podium.

A man takes his place in front of the microphone wearing a navy suit, light blue dress shirt, and blue striped tie. Castiel’s hair is brown, and sticks in strange directions, a direct contrast to the crisp, professional clothing. When Castiel finally takes his place at the podium, the wings of the Angel Construction logo spread out behind him. All that’s missing is the halo.

“Disgusting,” mutters Dean.

“Thank you, Ginger,” says Castiel, and Dean’s surprised at the low gravel in his voice. “It’s a pleasure to be here in Savannah tonight, to speak with you all about the newest projects of Angel Construction, and the exciting changes this means for you, the citizens of this fair city.”

Castiel pauses to give a pointed nod to the old woman, Ginger. She walks in front of an easel and removes a blank card to reveal a large map of Savannah’s historic district. Thick red lines converge around one city block.

“I’m excited to announce that Angel Construction has bought the entirety of the block between 8th and 10th street. These buildings have been in need of repairs for years, and it’s now scheduled for demolition, to be replaced with…”

Another pointed nod. The next picture is an artistic rendition of a row of beautiful townhouses, fronts all similar in brick color and style.

“…Angel Condominiums.”

A spattering of people begin to hoot and cheer and Castiel pauses his speech.

“What a jackass,” Dean says to Sam.

“Stop distracting me, I have to write up a paragraph on this,” hisses Sam.

“Angel Condominiums will start in the low two hundred thousands, with each unit containing state of the art appliances, energy saving construction practices, and a variety of plans to fit the needs of all families.”

Another brief wave of applause that quickly fades.

“And the area is getting other benefits as well,” says Castiel. He looks out over the crowd and forces a small smile that looks painful. “The back lot off of Magnolia Street has been outdoor storage, and a row of closed business, but demolition is already scheduled so that construction can begin on…”

Another pointed nod. This time the artist’s rendition is a large, four-story concrete building and a…grocery store? Dean squints in confusion.

“A Whole Foods, conveniently located right here in the historic district.”

The applause is real this time. People hoot, jump, and clap their hands above their heads like apes.

“What the fuck’s a Whole Foods?” asks Dean.

“Upscale grocery store, focusing on organic products and healthy lifestyles,” says Sam.

“What the hell? We have plenty of grocery stores around here, and farmers markets, and who the hell needs another Whole Foods, are they implying the others are what, half foods?”

“Shut up,” says Sam, as the applause finally dies down. Dean looks across the crowd and glares at the loudest cheerleaders.

“And tonight, it’s my privilege, to announce Angel Construction’s newest project, the Marshall House,” says Castiel, gesturing toward the building behind him. “This beloved landmark of this beautiful city is in need of a facelift. It’s the goal of Angel Construction to repair this landmark by updating the inner infrastructure while bringing in specialists in eighteenth-century American architecture to ensure the new building will maintain all of the design elements of the old one while adding a few new attractions.”

Ginger doesn’t need the nod this time this time. She’s already removing the picture on the easel. The crowd erupts in whistling and cheering.

“Yes,” says Castiel, smiling at the enthusiastic crowd. “A Starbucks Coffee and new upscale shop fronts will be included in the improved renovations.”

“The fucking Marshall House,” says Dean, gripping Sam’s arm until Sam’s forced to turn around and acknowledge him. “The Marshall House?! He can’t bulldoze the fucking Marshall House! For a goddamn Starbucks? There’s already four in the historic district alone!”

“Dean, calm down, it’s old, and falling apart, it’s in need of some updating to bring it into the twenty-first century…”

“But what about our business? What about the hauntings? It’s one of the most haunted sites in Savannah, it’s a keystone to our ghost tour, and he’s going to destroy it…”

“No, he’s going to demolish it, and rebuild it, bigger, and better.”

“But if you get rid of the original structure, whatever’s tying the spirits to the premise might disappear as well!”

“I mean, okay, maybe,” says Sam.

“There’s no maybe, it’s a definite,” says Dean, balling up his hands. “If you destroy the remains, you destroy the ghost.”

“Well, I mean, we’ve been touring that place for years, Dean, and we haven’t seen any concrete proof that it even is haunted…”

“You want to have this debate now?!” Dean gestures at the brick building. “C’mon, there’s too much unexplained phenomenon in this world, and that house has one of the longest haunted histories in town, if there’s a ghost around, it’s probably hanging out in that place, at least until this asshat destroys it.”

Castiel continues to drone on in his deep, formal voice. Some of the press in the audience are raising their hands with questions.

“Okay, maybe, look, I need to listen to this for class, not debate the existence of the supernatural.”

“Fine,” says Dean, pulling away. He begins to bob and weave through the crowd, making his way toward the podium.

“Okay, more questions,” says Castiel, staring out over the crowd of people. “Yes?”

“Will this Starbucks have a drive-through?” asks a blonde co-ed.

“No, this facility will be on the corner of the block, next to a private drive, there will be no drive-through, next?

“I got a question,” yells Dean, finally pushing his way to the front of the crowd.

“Yes, sir,” says Castiel, staring down from the podium, and pointing at Dean. From this distance, Dean can see that Castiel’s eyes are blue. Really blue. The blue suit and tie must be amplifying the effect.

“Yeah, uh, where do you get off gutting our city, taking away all of her personality, and replacing it with a cold, corporate facade?”

Castiel Novak’s mouth falls open, but no words form.

“I mean, how long have you even been here? Some outsider just walks into our city, tears down our favorite haunts then rebuilds them with a new face. Sorry, pal, all I see is plastic surgery-fake buildings, you’re tearing out the heart…”

“We have experts in construction practices dating to the Civil War period,” says Castiel, eyes staring directly at Dean. Into Dean. The gaze is unsettling. “Our engineers aim to recreate the same spirit of the structure while making it more structurally sound, and replacing all of the mismatch of electronics and plumbing that have been tacked on through the years.”

“Yeah, sure, you really keep the spirit when you turn a whole corner of the damn building into a Starbucks,” says Dean.

A few of the attendees that have been silent during Castiel’s speech are now nodding along with Dean.

“What this city needs is to keep the unique pieces that make her our own. Angel Construction aims to tear out this city’s soul,” says Dean.

“Angel Construction aims to create a better, more beautiful city, to attract new residents, new funding, and further progress for the people of Savannah,” says Castiel, leaning over the podium. His mouth presses against the microphone for the next statement. “This is in the best interest of all the citizens.”

A small smattering of applause, and a solitary, ‘Yeah.’

“You mean citizens like me? Who's lived here my entire life, and now I'm facing a tax lien on my property because I can’t afford the taxes on my own home? We can’t afford it because Angel Construction has jacked up the prices of all the property in the area so high! For the better of our people, of course,” Dean pauses with a sneer. “Now I can’t even afford to live in my own goddamn home.”

A new yell rises up from the crowd, and someone slaps Dean on the back.

“No,” says Dean, setting his jaw. “I’d say Angel Construction is about the bottom line, and it has nothing to do with Savannah, or with the people that make it what it is.”

A larger portion of the crowd cheers their approval, and Dean turns his back on the podium. Hands clap his shoulder, and bodies push into him as he smiles and makes his way back to Sam, near the edge of the crowd.

Sam smiles, speaking out of the side of his mouth and moving his lips only the bare minimum. “Had no idea you were such a community activist.”

“Shut up,” says Dean, almost smiling and barely moving his lips.

The presentation wraps up with the elderly Ginger giving a final ‘thank you’ speech, and polite applause as Castiel steps down.

“Where did that even come from?” asks Sam, raising both eyebrows.

“What? I care about the community,” says Dean. Sam’s flat stare demands explanation. “I guess I lost it when he said he was gonna bulldoze the damn Marshall House, that place is one of the stops on our tour. You think I’ll stand by and just let that happen?”

Sam’s forehead creases and his lips push out into a perturbed scowl. "And about not being able to afford the house?”

“Sometimes it takes a little exaggeration to get a point across,” says Dean, scratching the back of his head.

“Seemed pretty passionate about it for it to be an exaggeration…”

“It’s the Marshall House, it’s the family business, I don’t know what to do, but I gotta try something,” says Dean, shrugging his shoulders, “it’s not in my nature to go down without a fight.”

“Maybe there are some things we can do, for the Marshall House,” says Sam, straightening his back, making him tower above the crowd. “I can ask around school, see if anyone has experience with local government, or knows something to help.”

“I fucking knew this law degree would pay off,” says Dean, slapping Sam in the middle of his back.

“Ouch, yeah, okay,” says Sam, grinning. “Why not? Maybe I can somehow spin this into some extra credit for showing community involvement.”

“Good thinking,” says Dean, grinning.

“Excuse me,” comes a low, proper voice behind Dean, causing him to spin on his heel.

Castiel Novak is shorter when he’s not standing on a raised platform. Not that he’s short, he’s only an inch shorter than Dean. He wears the same suit and tie, but he’s added on a trench coat. His expression is neutral. Cold.

“Uh, can I help you?” asks Dean, subconsciously backing away from Castiel—closer to Sam.

“Castiel Novak,” he says, extending a hand. Dean stares at it, then flicks his eyes back up to meet Castiel’s. After an awkward pause, Castiel puts his hand down. “May I have your name?”

“Dean,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares back at Castiel.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” says Castiel, giving a formal nod. “I enjoyed witnessing the passion you have for your community. I wanted to let you know, I am dedicated to serving the city. I think you could also see the benefits my company is offering. This project is very important to me, personally, and I’d like the chance to discuss it more with concerned citizens—like yourself. Would you consider attending our upcoming corporate meeting?”

“Oh my god, save your corporate, synergy, bullshit motivational speech, I’m not interested in coming to your stupid meeting.”

“Hello, Sam Winchester, I’m Dean’s brother,” says Sam, reaching around Dean to offer his giant paw to Castiel. They shake hands, and Castiel tilts his face up toward Sam. “I’m a student at Savannah Law School, studying property law, I would be extremely interested in attending your company’s meeting if the invitation remains…”

“Of course,” says Castiel, nodding.

“I’ll even drag Dean along,” says Sam.

“The hell you will, one of us has to be working, dumbass,” says Dean, shaking his head.

“The meeting is this upcoming Tuesday,” says Castiel.

“No tours on Tuesday," says Sam, elbowing Dean in the ribs. “Count us in.”

“I look forward to seeing you there, and hope we can speak more about your ideas for the community,” says Castiel.

Dean watches Castiel walk up to a pair of mothers pushing strollers and strike up a conversation.

“What a weirdo,” says Dean. “Why would you make us go to some meeting where a bunch of fat cats sit around and laugh about how to best tax us out of our damn home?”

“Is this really a problem?” asks Sam, pausing to look directly into Dean’s eyes. “The taxes really went up that much?”

Dean shrugs.

“I knew it, you’re hiding something. Dammit, Dean.”

“It’s no big deal…”

“Why do you always do this? If the taxes went up, and you’re having a problem, just tell me,” says Sam, shaking his head. “You don’t have to keep being my guardian, I’m a grown ass man.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” says Dean.

“Treat me like a roommate, not a dependent,” says Sam, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Our taxes went up,” says Dean, shrugging with his hands out, “they always go up, it’s not news. I’m working on ways to scrounge up the cash, since talking to an appraiser…”

“You talked to an appraiser? About what, selling?”

“The tax value, but a lot of good it did me, taxes just went up again,” says Dean, rolling his eyes. “The appraiser said it was these assholes jacking up all the property rates. That it was...ya know, gentrification.”

“I knew you had to hear that word somewhere,” says Sam, shaking his head causing long hair to sway into his eyes. “So what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to do whatever we can, and that means, saving the Marshall House.”


	3. Angel Convention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean attends Castiel's presentation.

The Roadhouse is a necessary distraction after the stress of the news conference. Dean waits until Sam goes to the men’s room to pull out his phone and check his messages.

_Wayward67,_

_I apologize for disappearing last night. I believe my nerves were getting to me. I have a very stressful day to look forward to, today. I find you extremely attractive and wish to learn more about you, but I’m afraid I might not be ready to meet so soon. I would understand if you are not looking for that type of relationship._

_Sincerely,_

_Thursday00_

“Relationship,” says Dean, out loud, at the bar. How long has he been staring at the response? Still, no Sam.

_No problem man, I had a pretty shit day myself so I feel ya and I’m down for a little get to know u before a meet n greet, stranger danger and all, I get it, and u are still way cooler than the dick pic guys_

Dean hits send and a brief moment later there’s an instant message response.

 **Thursday00** : I’m here if you want to talk about your bad day.

The message appears out of nowhere, making Dean smile.

 **Wayward67** : u sound like a chick flick

 **Thursday00** : Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.

 **Wayward67** : nah it’s cool

Dean didn’t mind sharing some about himself, but this was an Internet stranger. He glances around. What’s taking Sam so long? Dean concentrates on the best way to talk about his problems, without being specific.

 **Wayward67** : just got some bad news today, about my business

 **Thursday00** : Business happens to be my specialty. What seems to be the problem?

 **Wayward67** : well, i guess i can keep it vague, um, there’s this part of my business but a competitor came in, he’s gonna mess up my business. And i kinda wanna fight him but it feels like a lost cause.

 **Thursday00** : Don’t stop fighting just because you feel like it’s a lost cause. If it’s important to you, stand up to this competitor. Do everything in your power. You never know what might happen if you fight--but you know what will happen if you do nothing.

 **Wayward67** : hey good point. I mean this is my favorite part of my business we’re talking about

 **Thursday00** : Stick up for yourself, if it’s your favorite part. There could be a way to save it. And if you do fail at least you will know that you did everything you could.

 **Wayward67** : Yeah…yeah man ur right

 **Thursday00** : For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that you are having a tough time and I hope you’re able to save your business.

 **Wayward67** : thanks that actually is nice to hear. So what about you then, your message said you had a stressful day planned

 **Thursday00** : Yes, everything I was worried about happening came to fruition. A presentation I had to do today went very poorly. I’ll likely catch backlash from my superiors.

 **Wayward67** : ouch that might trump my problems now I feel bad for bitching

 **Thursday00** : It’s not a competition. Everyone’s problems are relative. It’s a good way to learn about a person, and it’s beneficial to talk to others about your problems as well.

 **Wayward67** : yeah well I don’t know about all that shit but uh, I’m cool with waiting to meet like you said we can just talk it’s nbd

 **Thursday00** : That makes me very happy.

Dean grins at the phone in his hand as a hand slaps down on the table.

“Who ya texting?” asks Sam, sitting down with a knowing grin on his face.

“Bobby.”

“Bullshit, Bobby doesn’t text, and you wouldn’t be sitting there grinning like a middle schooler with a crush if it was Bobby.”

“It’s no one important,” says Dean, picking up his forgotten beer. He brings it to his lips before realizing it’s empty. Sam watches him pretend to gulp air, and smirks.

“So who is this unimportant person distracting you from your beer?” asks Sam.

Dean rolls his eyes. Because he knows. He can refuse all he wants, but Sam is going to be a bitch until he comes clean. If he doesn’t fess up, Sam’s likely to go snooping for answers himself. Dean makes a tactical decision.

“Just someone I met on a dating app,” says Dean.

“Wow, really, you? I thought you were done with dating apps after what happened last time, with the uh, prostitute…thing,” says Sam.

“Yeah, well, thought I might try something new,” mumbles Dean, holding up the phone as proof. There’s nothing incriminating about a messaging screen that only shows usernames.

“Thursday-zero-zero,” says Sam, reading out loud, “that makes me very…”

“Hey, come on,” says Dean, turning the phone back around.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Sam, holding up his hands, one gripping an empty bottle, “I’ll get us more beers, and you don’t have to talk about Thursday if you don’t want to…”

“It’s not anything serious,” says Dean, sighing. “If it was, you’d know about it.”

“Sure thing,” says Sam, standing up and casting a large shadow on the table. “I’m just glad to see you’re taking an interest in dating, haven’t seen you looking for anything more than a one-night-fling since Lisa. And trust me, if you’re only looking for some casual sexting, I don’t wanna know about it.”

“Ha. Ha,” says Dean, staring down at the screen as Sam walks up to the bar.

Dean pockets his phone and stares around the Roadhouse. A pair of girls hover near the bar, and he thinks he recognizes one of them. When their eyes meet, Dean gives a lazy grin and the girls lean into one another, whispering. Sam returns with the beers and follows Dean’s eyes back to the girls.

“Cheating on Thursday before the first date?” asks Sam.

“Jesus, I’m going to have to get you a date so you can worry less about my dating business.”

* * *

“So, start at the beginning…”

Castiel waves away the waiter. He needs to be sober for this conversation.

Across the table, Michael sits, elbows on the table and fingertips pressing together. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, brown hair short, perfectly parted. To his left, Nick slouches in his chair, a bored frown on his face. His jacket is askew, and he has decided not to wear a tie. Nor brush his bushy, dark blond hair.

“The meeting went according to plan,” says Castiel, pausing to clear his throat. He sits up straighter, still wearing his blue suit and striped tie from the earlier presentation at the Marshall House.

“According to plan? Was it your plan, all along, to vilify yourself on the seven o’clock local news?” asks Nick, smirking.

“It was my plan to give my speech about the company’s projects in the historical district,” says Castiel, making an effort to split his eye contact equally between his two brothers. “Most of the attendees were pleased with the announcement of the townhouses, Whole Foods, and the Marshall House renovations.”

“Then why is the news playing a clip from some redneck declaring Angel Construction is against the long-term citizens, that we’re bad for the people, that we’re stealing this city’s soul?” asks Michael, narrowing cold eyes. “You know, our Father would be furious if he knew you were garnering this kind of negative press.”

“Does it really matter? The deals have already gone through, the publicity can be mixed, construction will still happen,” says Castiel, sighing. “And Father isn’t active in our business anymore, there’s no use pretending he is, I know the three of us are on our own.”

“Gabriel is part of this, too,” says Nick, with a flippant wave.

“Gabe hasn’t shown up for work in over a year,” says Castiel. “I think he was serious about taking a permanent break.”

“You’re aware this is a probationary assignment?” asks Michael, eyes trained on Castiel.

“Of course.”

“We came to make sure everything was going smoothly, and there are already complications,” says Michael, sighing dramatically. “All the regional managers are meeting in Savannah on Tuesday. This doesn’t bode well.”

“There won’t be any more problems,” says Castiel. “I invited the concerned citizen to the presentation. He won’t be offering any further complications. I’ll handle the situation.”

“Maybe jumped into this a little too soon,” says Nick, putting his hands down and stretching his shoulders. “Mike, you should stay and supervise. I’d be happy to step in and help around corporate for the time being.”

“I’m handling corporate, you’re welcome to leave your Las Vegas pet project and assist Castiel,” says Michael, eyes shifting to Nick without turning his head away from Castiel.

“You think Father would want you to abandon your younger brother to failure here, and risk the company’s reputation, in order to continue usurping more of his power?” asks Nick, looking at his nails. Always so flippant, though Castiel always sees through it.

“Our Father is not here to speak for himself,” says Michael. “I am continuing the business in the best way possible.”

“And I’m personally carrying the profitability of this company with my gross sales in Vegas alone,” says Nick.

“I will make Savannah a success,” says Castiel, breaking the intense staredown between his two older brothers. “Once I prove myself, I can expand to other cities, and be of better assistance. I want to help.”

“I don’t have time to keep coming here and babysitting you,” says Michael. “We’ll talk to our people about some better press coverage. Call in some favors. Please, let this be the only setback.”

“It will be,” says Castiel.

The meal arrives, small portions arranged carefully with garnish and causes.

Castiel’s hunger has already vanished.

* * *

Castiel’s condo is filled with boxes, but there are no signs of life. It’s a relief to finally be alone. All members of the Novak family are incapable of relaxing around one another. The business talk had continued on through two bottles of wine.

He’s tipsy as he hangs up his coat, undoes his tie, and walks to his bedroom. It takes too long to undress and run a hot shower. The water washes away a small portion of the day’s stress, but it’s still a heavy burden. His bed beckons.

He lays down in bed and plugs his phone into the charger. His first thought is to check his app responses.

There is only one response in his inbox that Castiel cares to check.

 **Wayward67** : so what do u look for in a guy

Castiel smiles at the question. It’s so ‘first-date’ that his heart hurts. It’s been too long since he pursued anyone in person, and he’s never used an app before. Still, it feels natural. And this guy’s pictures are prime spank-bank material. He’s still smiling as he types his response.

 **Thursday00** : I look for someone intelligent that is fun to be around, able to carry a conversation. What do you look for in a partner?

 **Wayward67** : truthfully I always tend to go for uncomplicated, casual stuff but I kinda wanna change that

 **Thursday00** : What do you think you are looking for?

 **Wayward67** : Something more than one night ya know

 **Thursday00** : Ah, I understand.

 **Wayward67** : been single for awhile miss having someone

 **Thursday00** : Were you in a serious relationship recently?

 **Wayward67** : kinda I guess, I was serious about her, she had a kid, not mine, but made it feel more serious. She moved so we broke up. It was a year ago

 **Thursday00** : Do you usually date women?

 **Wayward67** : I don’t date anyone, she was the only one. Casual encounters I’m down with whatever, I’m bisexual but, haven’t wanted to date a woman since then.

Castiel rolls over in his bed, holding his phone up as he reads the screen. Something about the anonymity of the Internet makes sharing easier.

 **Thursday00** : I’ve never been in a serious relationship with a man because my family has issues with my sexuality. I’m interested in openly dating but want to make sure it’s the right person.

 **Wayward67** : this shouldn’t have to be hard ya know, to meet someone. Are u close with ur family?

 **Thursday00** : We work together, but don’t know each other well on a personal level. We were never into family bonding.

 **Wayward67** : It’s just my brother and me. We’re good about respecting each others privacy due to how we grew up, but he wouldn’t be against me with a guy. He knows I’ve been with guys, it’s just never been an issue.

 **Thursday00** : You are lucky to have such understanding.

 **Wayward67** : I also need someone that’s fun to hang out with, and having a sexy ass tattoo is a plus

 **Thursday00** : Do you mean to say it is a sexy-ass tattoo? Or a sexy ass-tattoo?

 **Wayward67** : I had dirty thoughts about that sexy ass tattoo last night

 **Thursday00** : My thoughts were dominated by your lacy underwear.

 **Wayward67** : didn’t scare you away with my panties I see

 **Thursday00** : Quite the opposite. We may be even more compatible than I originally thought. I would like to see more of you in panties.

 **Wayward67** : maybe if u ask nicely i’ll send you one tomorrow

 **Thursday00** : Then I am going to sleep tonight full of anticipation. Perhaps I can share more pictures of my tattoo in exchange.

 **Wayward67** : look forward to it, sexy ;)

* * *

“Hors d’oeuvre?”

“Yes, and keep them coming,” says Dean, picking up two buns for each hand. They’re slightly sweet and filled with seasoned hamburger. He leans in to speak to Sam with his mouth stuffed full, “At least a free meal out of this nightmare.”

The stout blond server smiles and quickly backs away to continue his rounds in the large room. The Hyatt’s conference room is nothing special. There’s hotel art on the walls, thin carpet on the floor, and a spattering of round tables covered with generic white tablecloths. One wall is set up for a presentation with a raised platform and a blank projection screen behind it.

“Dude, gross,” says Sam, standing on his toes to see around the room. He’s wearing one of the suits he wears for his presentations at school. It’s dark gray over a white dress shirt, and his tie is striped hunter green and silver.

“You’re the tallest person here, you don’t need to stand on your tippy toes,” says Dean, still chewing. He hadn’t bothered to dress up, choosing his usual jeans and beat up leather jacket. “Who are you looking for, anyway?”

“Mr. Novak invited us here, we should at least find him and let him know we came,” says Sam. He’s still craning his neck to look over the crowd when he bumps into a blonde woman in a pink cardigan.

“Sorry!” says Sam, immediately grabbing the woman by the shoulders. “I’m so, that was an accident, and I mean, uh…”

The blonde woman stares at her cardigan, splattered with champagne. Dean politely turns his back and pretends not to be listening to the embarrassing situation—while listening intently.

“Oh, no problem,” she says, holding out the now mostly empty champagne flute. “Hold this?”

Sam nods his head much more than necessary, hair coming free from behind his ears and into his eyes as he accepts the glass. The woman shrugs out of the cardigan and uses it to blot at the damp mark on the white dress shirt underneath. When she glances up at Sam, she’s smiling.

“No harm,” she says, giggling when she notices how pale and frightened Sam looks. “Wait, do I know you from class? Don’t you have Dr. Chang’s Ethics class this semester?”

“You go to Savannah Law?” asks Sam.

“Yeah, I thought you looked familiar! I’m Jess,” she says, tying the cardigan around her waist. The pink sweater over her charcoal slacks looks intentional. Fashionable.

“I just came here with my brother, we were invited by Mr. Novak,” says Sam.

“Nice name drop,” says Dean giving a covert thumbs up.

“Which one?” asks Jess, smiling as she reaches out and reclaims her empty glass.

Dean forgets to pretend to not listen. “The big boss is here?”

“Oh, not that Mr. Novak,” says Jess, looking confused between Dean and Sam. “This is the brother, I assume?”

“Yes,” says Sam. “That’s my brother, Dean. We were at the speech Castiel gave yesterday at the Marshall House, and he invited us to stop by tonight for this presentation.”

“Oh wow! You’re the guys that made the news,” says Jess, pointing at Dean as he eyes light up with recognition.

“We made the…wait…” Sam turns to stare at Dean, whispering loudly, “Did you watch the news?”

“No, I didn’t watch the fucking news,” says Dean, whisper-yelling.

“We were on the news?” asks Sam.

“ _What did I just fucking say_ …” Dean’s whisper hissing attracts a few stray glares.

“Okay, Jesus, could we, watch the language at this formal event,” says Sam, through his teeth. He jerks his head toward Jess. “There are ladies present.”

“Yeah, real formal,” says Dean, shaking his head. They are his formal jeans, but the rest of his outfit is ultra casual.

“Are you here doing the extra credit for class?” asks Sam.

“No, I’m actually doing an internship with Angel Construction’s counsel,” says Jess, smiling. “It’s for the entire year, and it’s super interesting. I’m enjoying myself.”

“Maybe you can help us then,” says Dean, shoving the last bun into his face so he can talk with his hands. “We need to stop these assholes from bulldozing the Marshall House.”

“Are you guys not staying for the presentation?” asks Jess, looking back and forth between the brothers. “They’re supposed to go into great detail about the projects. My internship doesn’t really delve into what they’re doing, I’m mostly studying the law side, the necessary permits, and property laws to follow during these types of situations.”

“Is it complicated, doing construction on a historical landmark?” asks Sam, eyes growing brighter.

“You wouldn’t believe, you need to get City Council’s approval, which takes a motion, and enough support from the members…”

“Or a few greased palms,” says Sam, grinning.

“Exactly,” says Jess.

“I don’t need all the law-nerd details, just, is there some kinda lawyer way to block this?” asks Dean.

“I mean, if you got enough support against it, maybe council would hear your case, but you’d need signatures, and support, that would take a lot of effort, especially considering the renovation is actually really great for the city, and…”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the presentation is about to begin, if everyone could please join me in saying a quick prayer,” says an elderly gentleman in a black suit and red tie. Most of the people in the room quiet down and bow their heads respectfully.

“Dear Heavenly Father…”

“Is this a church sermon or a business meeting?” Dean asks, leaning into Sam.

“They have the word  _Angel_ in their business name, they’re known for being a very Christian company,” says Sam.

“Corporations spouting religion have never rubbed me the right way,” says Dean. The prayer rambles on, and Dean pulls out his phone to check his messages.

_Wayward67,_

_I have not had a chance to make any friends in Savannah. It makes it stressful when I have important work meetings, like today. The only ones I can go to are my family, and since they are the ones I stand to disappoint the most, it’s difficult to open up about my insecurities with them. Perhaps that’s why I am writing to you about it. Sorry if this is an inappropriate use of a dating app—unloading my problems onto a stranger. But thank you for listening._

_Sincerely,_

_Thursday00_

Dean smiles down at his phone. He fires off a quick response while the prayer continues.

_Good luck I hope you ace your meeting, I believe in you sexy. And you can unload on me anytime ;) ;)_

Dean chuckles at his own joke, and Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“…Amen,” says the speaker. “Now, if everyone would please direct their attention to the podium and give a warm welcome to the CEO of Angel Construction, Mr. Michael Novak.”

A tall man with black hair swept over in a side part walks onto the podium and adjusts the microphone. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. Angel Construction is pleased to be partnering with the wonderful City of Savannah to bring new life and improvements to this historical treasure.”

Dean raises an eyebrow as he turns to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam is riveted, eyes wide and staring. Dean elbows him in the ribs. “Hey.”

“Shh, that’s the CEO, he’s speaking, you should listen,” says Sam, ducking down to whisper to Dean.

Dean turns his eyes back to the front where Michael Novak points at a large graph of projected sales for Angel Construction. He looks like a blend between a televangelist and a Wall Street crony. Dean shakes his head and taps Sam on the shoulder.

“Nah, this is boring, we don’t care about their company, we just want them to get out of our city.”

“Could you just, maybe, give it a chance, for two minutes?” asks Sam.

Dean shrugs and wanders away from Sam and Jess. He finds a few bored servers in the back and gets more of the hamburger sweet buns and a glass of champagne. It’s so dry he shudders at the first taste, then forces another.

Michael Novak drones on about numbers and projections and answers a few questions from men in suits near the podium. It’s extremely boring. Finally, a new spattering of applause and a familiar figure steps up to the podium.

“Everyone knows my brother, Castiel, has been working at the corporate office for the past four years, but Savannah is his first stint as Project Lead, and we all have utmost confidence that this city will be improved thanks to his efforts.”

Polite clapping. Dean huffs and glares at the podium. Castiel Novak wears a black suit, white shirt, and powder blue tie. He stands too rigid behind the podium, slightly shorter than his brother, and his dark hair sticks up in a few places.

“Thank you, Michael,” says Castiel, leaning in slightly too close to the microphone. There’s some feedback. Dean snorts a laugh to himself.

“The best part about working in Savannah is the history,” says Castiel, staring out at the crowd with a level gaze. “It’s the goal of our company to bring new buildings and renovation to the city, without losing any of the city’s character.

“Once Angel Construction finishes with the Marshall House, it will be a spitting image of its original form on the outside, with all the modern amenities on the inside. The architect, Balthazar, is flying in from London to act as Lead Designer for our team, and will oversee every step of construction to ensure his high standards are met.”

Dean rolls his eyes. This is what Castiel wants them to hear? It’s okay that he’s tearing down the Marshall House because he’s going to build it exactly the same? And what’s going to happen to the original structures, the human remains suspected to still exist under the foundation, and the ghosts that haunt it?

There’s no reason to listen to Castiel drone on about the benefits of having a Whole Foods and how property values will increase thanks to the new townhouses. Of course, the property value will increase—that’s the fucking problem. Dean’s attention drifts until he notices Castiel exiting the stage. The tallest head in the room begins whipping about.

Dean grabs a napkin, fills it with buns, and weaves through the crowd back to Sam.

“Is it possible he left?” asks Jess.

“It’s possible, but it’s more likely he’s around here, somewhere, sulking,” says Sam.

“I’m not sulking,” says Dean, stepping up behind the pair, causing them both to turn around with a jolt.

“Oh, thank you so much for inviting us, you definitely have a big project in front of you,” says Sam.

“What the hell?” asks Dean, cocking an eyebrow.

“Thank you for coming,” says the rough voice of Castiel Novak from over Dean’s shoulder. “I had worried you two might not show, and I did not get any contact information.”

“Yeah, real jumpin’ party,” says Dean, clutching his napkins.

“It’s my hope that you both feel more supportive of the proposed improvements after hearing my plans?” asks Castiel, his face neutral.

“Why would any of this make me feel better about the improvements?” asks Dean, setting down the full napkin on an empty table.

“Balthazar is world renowned for his ability to design buildings that blend seamlessly with their surroundings,” says Castiel. “He’s done work in Europe renovating buildings that match all manner of architecture. He designed a brand new hotel that blended into a medieval wall town in Italy, and an office building in London that captured the Industrial Era so perfectly only experts could spot that it was a modern building.”

“Yeah, but you’re still tearing down the building. You’re tearing out its heart, and that’s what I’m interested in,” says Dean.

“I don’t understand,” says Castiel, head tilting slightly as his eyes narrow. He squints at Dean as though trying to see through the meaning of his words.

Dean brushes his hands together, knocking off crumbs from the snacks onto his jeans. Castiel stares, frowning but doesn’t comment.

“In my line of business, I need the original building, putting up a cheap replica, even if it matches perfectly, won’t do,” says Dean.

“And what exactly is your line of business?” asks Castiel.

“I own my own company,” says Dean, lifting his chin higher, “Winchester Ghost Tours. You’ve probably heard of us.”

Castiel shakes his head very slowly.

“We’re the number one ghost tour company in Savannah,” says Dean.

“I’m unfamiliar with that line of work,” says Castiel. “What…exactly do you do?”

“We have vans, and we take tourists around to different haunted sites in Savannah, tell them some history, and train them how to spot the supernatural,” says Dean.

“You believe in ghosts?” asks Castiel.

“Look, pal, when you’ve seen as much as I’ve seen, yeah, there’s no question, I believe in ghosts,” says Dean, chin raising defiantly.

“How old are you?” asks Castiel, blue eyes narrowing.

“I’m twenty-seven…look, the Marshall House? It’s haunted. One of the most haunted on our tour. And if you demolish it, you’ll be disturbing those spirits. Even if you rebuild it looking exactly the same down to the very bricks, those spiritual connections will be damaged. Maybe they move on to whatever’s after being a ghost, or maybe they haunt your ass for all eternity.”

“I’ve never heard of ghosts haunting an ass,” says Castiel. Sam and Jess both hold back laughter at the horrified expression blooming on Dean’s face.

“Th…” Dean has to pause and shake his head as he exhales, “unbelievable.”

“So you are like real life Ghostbusters?” asks Castiel.

“No, we are absolutely nothing like the…we’re not Ghostbusters, we don’t do like, cleansing, we just observe, and share that observation with others. That movie is science fiction—this is real life.”

“Then, stop me if I am incorrect in my assumption, but your anger about the renovations to the historical district stems from the idea that construction would disrupt the…ghosts?”

“Don’t you know what happens when you tamper with sacred ground? That house has been several things, including a hospital during the Civil War, they’ve excavated remains from amputations, who knows what else is there holding the spirits captive? You know what happens when you build on sacred burial ground, don’t you? Haven’t you seen  _Poltergeist_?”

“I’ve seen  _Ghost_ ,” said Castiel. “I found it moving. Patrick Swayze is a delight.”

“I love that movie,” says Jess.

“That has absolutely nothing to do with…” Dean stops and takes a breath. “Come on one of our tours. We run them all weekend, and some days of the week, it’s not the busy season, so I can probably fit you in.”

More like definitely, but no use admitting that to this douche.

“Perhaps,” says Castiel, tilting his head in thought. “I’ll need to discuss it with my assistant.”

“What are we discussing?” asks a woman with a mess of black curls as she walks up behind Castiel, and drapes her arms around his shoulders. She has to push up on her toes to plant a messy kiss on his cheek.

“Mr. Winchester was just inviting me on a ghost tour,” says Castiel, posture not changing despite the new arrival.

“Oooh, spooky! Count me in, I love a good haunted house!”

“I’m not sure if the invitation extends to…”

“Bring whoever you want,” says Dean, giving a tight smile.

“Aren’t you the yummiest thing here,” says the woman with a smirk. She reaches around Castiel to extend a hand to Dean. “I’m Meg.”

“Dean.” He accepts her hand and gives a polite squeeze.

“Charmed,” says Meg. “I look forward to catching some ghosts with you. But right now, I gotta steal Clarence away. Michael’s looking for you. He was making that face.”

Castiel straightens his shoulders, and his face somehow manages to become even more grave. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says before disappearing into the crowd.

“Looks like he just saw a ghost,” says Sam, who Dean had frankly forgotten was breathing down his neck. Jess is turned away, speaking with another young woman.

“Really, dude? That’s what you’re going with?” asks Dean.

Sam shrugs.

“Unbelievable.”

“Poor Clarence,” says Meg, pushing out her bottom lip, “must be tough being the youngest.”

“Tell me about it,” says Sam, earning an eye roll from Dean.

“Hold the phones, you’re that guy from TV,” says Meg, eyes darkening into something mischievous. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” asks Dean.

Meg shrugs while smirking.

“You work for Angel Construction, too?” asks Dean.

Meg laughs, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. It does nothing to stifle the giggles. “You could say that, I suppose. I am on the payroll.”

“You’re Castiel’s assistant?” asks Dean.

“Ah, me and Clarence, now that’s complicated,” says Meg. “Can’t wait for the tour. I’ll make sure his assistant calls you for the deets.”

“You give ghost tours?” asks Jess, reappearing as Meg wanders away.

“Oh, yeah,” says Sam, ears turning slightly red where his hair is hooked behind them. “Um, our father was an author, he wrote about famous haunted landmarks in America, and he ran a ghost tour here in Savannah.”

“I’ve heard of those,” says Jess, eyes lighting up. “Never been on one, it sounds fun.”

“Well, you could come along, too, then,” says Dean, smiling. Sam gives him a grateful look. Dean shrugs. “Since I’m just giving them away to whoever tonight.” Sam’s look becomes slightly disapproving.

 _Don’t ruin this, dude_.

Dean is fluent in Sam’s facial expressions.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go grab some snacks for the road,” says Dean, straightening his leather jacket as he walks away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: Dean takes Thursday take their relationship to the next level.


	4. Petition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly porn, fair warning. Sorry for all the spam but starting today the update schedule will be every Monday and Thursday, thank you to those that have commented and subscribed I have finished this fic and am posting as I edit it. I look forward to sharing it all with you :)

“Ugh, I thought that thing would never end,” says Meg. Castiel holds the condo door open as she walks inside, and immediately pauses to remove her black stiletto shoes. She chunks them against the wall.

“Please, control yourself, we have neighbors,” says Castiel.

But Meg’s already walking into the living room, avoiding boxes in the dark. She struggles for a moment with her dress before sighing. “Unzip me?”

Castiel walks into the main room as Meg gathers her unruly curls and lifts her hair out of the way. He pulls the zipper down from the nape of her neck, all the way to the swell of her hips. The matching black bra and panties are striking against her pale skin.

“Thanks, Clarence,” says Meg, dropping her hair and slipping out of the dress. She drapes it over the arm of the couch before dropping down and patting the cushions until she finds the remote.

“You know, I think Luci digs me,” says Meg as the screen jumps to life, illuminating the dark condo. Investigation Discovery plays on the television, snagging Meg’s attention.

“Everyone thinks Nick likes them, he’s insidious,” says Castiel, taking off his trench coat and hanging it near the front door. “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“For some reason, that just makes it hotter,” says Meg.

“Spare me the fantasies about my brother,” says Castiel.

“Don’t be jealous, Clarence, I still love you the most,” says Meg. “But your brothers definitely tickle my nethers, oh man, look at this idiot, thinks he can cover up a murder by tearing out the carpet in his trunk, hah, guilty much…”

“Goodnight, Meg,” says Castiel, walking toward his bedroom, “It’s another long day in the morning, and I’m exhausted.”

A dismissive flipping of the wrist is all Meg spares, eyes glued to the screen.

Once in his room, Castiel removes his fine clothes until he’s in a gray undershirt and pale blue and white striped boxers. He carefully hangs up his suit jacket, and pants, pausing to remove the familiar weight of his phone from the pockets.

He smiles warmly down at the message from before his speech. He’d felt pathetic, reaching out to an anonymous Internet friend before a stressful speech. It was a relief when Wayward was kind about it.

**Thursday00** : I appreciate the message earlier. It actually did help a little. I was still a nervous wreck, but maybe slightly less.

**Wayward67** : glad I could help man, I like to help people, everyone needs a hand sometimes

**Thursday00** : I’m hoping you still think I’m cooler than the dick pic guys.

**Wayward67** : don’t get me wrong if u wanna send a dick pic that’s cool

The response is almost immediate. Wayward is logged in. Castiel allows himself a moment to imagine the man was waiting for him to come online. A smile turns up one corner of his mouth.

**Thursday00** : But then I’m just as bad as the others

**Wayward67** : nah you get a pass, ur cool

Another instantaneous response. A bold idea forms. Castiel glances down at his boxers. He gives his already interested cock a squeeze. A photograph from Wayward’s profile is open for additional inspiration, and Castiel drowns in the images of tan skin and toned muscles.

The idea of meeting someone from the Internet is daunting. But the idea of seeing more of Wayward is immensely appealing. It’s such a small risk with not much to lose and so much potential.

Castiel strokes himself through his thin boxers until his erection is tenting strong. He switches on his phone’s camera and takes a shot showing his hand grabbing his bulge, the top of his thighs, and a sliver of bare stomach.

Uploading. Sent.

**Wayward67** : u look good enough to eat

**Thursday00** : I am looking at your pictures while I touch myself.

**Wayward67** : u should pull those boxers down, get a better feel

**Thursday00** : Show me yours; I’ll show you mine.

**Wayward67** : dude what a line

**Thursday00** : I apologize if that was too forward.

Is he pushing too hard? Castiel stands up and walks into the bathroom. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, and prepares for bed, ignoring his persistent erection.

Incoming attachment. The picture loads.

Castiel moans.

Faded jeans, unzipped and rucked down to mid-thigh. A hint of white lace from unseen panties. A fist wrapped around a thick cock. It’s in black and white. Damn this man. Castiel wanted to see the flush of his skin; the deep coloring at the tip. A handsome cock on a toned body, even if he doesn’t know the man’s face.

Castiel sits down and slides his hand down the front of his boxers. This man he’s never met turns him on more than anyone he’s ever known. And it’s been a long time since he felt even his own touch, let alone a partner’s.

Time and privacy are sparse since moving to Savannah. Staring at the private photo brings all the built-up need boiling to the surface. A wet spot is already forming when he pauses to type.

**Thursday00** : Stroking my cock while looking at yours

Castiel keeps his strokes firm and slow, enlarging Wayward’s picture. He could meet this man. It might be possible to meet this man tonight. He could drop to his knees, and take that hard dick straight to the back of his throat.

**Wayward67** : pics or it didn’t happen

Not rejection. He’s being teased. There’s no reason to disappoint. Castiel leans back on the bed, imagining how Wayward’s dick would feel in his mouth. It’s been weeks since he’s had any relief. His cock responds easily to his touch, teasing at first, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. He smears the first dribbles of precome into his skin. It’s slicker when he tightens his fist, hand sliding easily.

Castiel fucks into his fist, eyes closing. The image lights up the back of his eyelids, already memorized. His lips fall open as he pictures himself mouthing Wayward’s dick, tasting his skin, his come.

The first pulse signals the end. Hands are full. There’s little choice but to aim up his own stomach, dripping and messy. He milks the last drips out over his fingers.

One-handed photography proves challenging, but Castiel manages. The photo shows his hand wrapped fastly around his spent cock, still hard though flagging. His fingers glistened, sticky with his own spunk. His stomach and the first powerful stripes are in the background, made blurry due to the shallow field of focus. Castiel leaves the pictures up on his phone as he stands up and walks into the bathroom to clean up.

Is it too much? Perhaps sending dick pictures through a dating app isn’t the best way to make a deeper connection. And it’s something deeper that Castiel wants. One night stands and paid company aren’t difficult to find. Castiel’s looking for something different—something he’s never had before. A real partner, someone to share his bed and his days.

Still, Wayward asked for proof.

Castiel returns from the bathroom, cleaned from his earlier activities, and wearing clean boxer briefs. He stares at the phone a beat longer. Then, hits send on the photo.

“Clarence, cover your naughty bits,” says Meg, before throwing open the door. Her eyes quickly scan the room and she sighs. “You’re never doing anything interesting in here.”

“What do you need?” asks Castiel, pulling back the comforter of his king sized bed, standing in clean boxer briefs. He doesn’t feel underdressed since Meg is still in black bra and panties.

“You never told me if you need me to go to the company dinner tomorrow, so I’m asking now while I have your undivided attention,” says Meg, smiling sweetly. “If you don’t pick me out a dress, I might show up skyclad.”

“Sky…” Castiel shakes his head, not bothering to decipher. “Wear the black Valentino dress, the one with the lace neckline and sleeves.”

“Your wish is my command,” says Meg, giving a short salute. “What are you up to? New episode’s starting if you wanna watch some murder porn together before you crash?”

“No, thank you,” says Castiel, settling into bed. “It’s been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be worse. I’m going to sleep.”

“You’re the boss,” says Meg, backing out of the door. “See you in the morning!”

Castiel waits until the bedroom door clicks behind Meg before checking his phone.

**Wayward67** : goddamn ur sexy

**Thursday00** : Thanks for the enjoyable evening. Makes up for the stressful day.

**Wayward67** : back atcha

* * *

City Hall. Dean admires the limestone block exterior. The building’s facade is decorated with arches, columns, and stone railings. A clock face is centered at the top, crowned by a golden dome with Old Glory flying overhead. It’s the epitome of an early nineteenth-century municipal building.

The best part, in Dean’s opinion, is its rich history. Too bad City Hall was too far out of the way to be on the tour. The columns and architectural embellishments would look sinister under a full moon. There are definitely skeletons hidden somewhere in such an old, important building’s history.

Dean walks inside and suffers through the metal detectors. A lazy guard runs a wand over his jeans, plaid shirt, and leather jacket. He passes inspection and follows wall signs until he finds the main offices for the City Council chambers. An elderly woman in a blue dress suit and silver bun smiles as he enters.

“May I help you?” asks the woman. The nameplate reads Janice.

“Good morning, Janice, I’m hoping you can help me today. I need to talk to City Council,” says Dean.

“Do you have an appointment?” asks Janice.

“I do not, but it’s very important,” says Dean, putting on his most charming smile.

“You’ll need an appointment,” says Janice, a tiny frown on her lined face. “The Council members don’t come into their offices every day, you know.”

“Well, time is a factor, it’s in regards to the construction projects in the historical district,” says Dean.

“I can take a message?” asks Janice, one eyebrow raising.

“I need to talk to someone, immediately, or else it’ll be too late once construction starts,” says Dean, sighing. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and scowls. “The Council is making a mistake, the people don’t want their landmarks torn down and remade. How are we supposed to have our voices heard if we can’t even speak to the Council before demolition begins?”

“There is a Council meeting coming up soon,” says Janice, smiling politely. “If you were to have a petition, with enough signatures, the issue will automatically be added to the meeting agenda. It doesn’t guarantee that the Council will change their position, but it would open the discussion. You could attend the meeting, and have a say at that time.”

“Really?” asks Dean, eyes lighting up. “That’s…yeah, how do I do that?”

“I can get you some paperwork to assist you with getting your signatures, and show you how to file a complaint online, and your representative’s direct email so you can be in touch…”

“Wow, I can’t believe you’re being so helpful about this, honestly,” says Dean, chuckling to himself.

“City Council is all about listening to the constituents,” says Janice. “And I’m a big fan of grassroots campaigns and civil disobedience. I got into local politics back in the seventies.”

“I had you pegged for a flower child,” says Dean, winking at Janice.

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean walks out with a borrowed clipboard, and several copies of a petition to block the demolition of historical markers in Savannah as proposed by Angel Construction. Dean stares up and down the sidewalk in front of City Hall, looking for his first mark.

An elderly couple nods along with his spiel about stopping Angel Construction, and signs. Dean wonders if they understood at all, but still, two signatures. Several college-aged students signed enthusiastically. Likely just trying to be activists rather than really caring about the cause.

More than a few people rushed by, refusing eye contact, but after an hour, Dean is standing on the corner of City Hall with one full page of signatures. It’s nowhere near the required five hundred, but it’s a start.

Dean looks up from the list and prepares to turn his charm on a man approaching in a black overcoat and dark shades.

“Ah, Mr. Winchester, fancy meeting you here,” says the man in a familiar accent. He removes his shades and a thin-lipped smile peeks out from his beard.

“Crowley.”

“I don’t suppose you came all the way down to City Hall for another tax discussion?” asks Crowley.

“I came here because I’m looking for a solution to your unrealistic taxes,” says Dean, gripping the clipboard tighter.

“I apologize, I didn’t realize this was your corner,” says Crowley, making an obvious show of glancing up and down the street. “I’d try back again at five, that’s when all the sad city workers are clocking out.”

Dean levels a dark glare.

“Oh, I bet you drive all the johns crazy with that pout,” says Crowley.

Dean ignores Crowley, making eye contact with a woman walking past. “Excuse me, ma’am, can I interest you in signing a petition to stop the decimation of our historical landmarks?”

The woman keeps walking, but another man in a suit hears Dean’s plea and pauses to add his signature to the list, before wandering off.

Dean frowns when he notices Crowley reading over his shoulder. “Saving the Marshall House won’t help your property value, you know?”

“No,” says Dean, “but it could ruin Angel Construction’s Savannah branch, and if tearing apart my town hurts their bottom line, you can bet those bottom feeders will move on and leave our city alone.”

“Aren’t you a devious little citizen,” says Crowley, holding out his hand. “I think I’d like to add my signature.”

Dean hesitates, then shrugs. A signature is a signature.

“It’s short-sighted though, you know,” says Crowley, accepting the pen and clipboard. “Angel Construction is one of those companies that care about their image. They try to look like they care about the people. They pretend to listen. And if you chase them away, the next real estate company to move in might not. And they’ll gut this town without a second glance.” Crowley finishes his signature with a flourish and smiles as he hands the clipboard back.

“It ain’t in my nature to go down without a fight,” says Dean, frowning. “I’ll worry about whatever comes after Angel Construction once they’re packing their bags and leaving—for good.”

“Well,” says Crowley, dropping his shades back down over his eyes and shoving his hands down into his pockets. “My lunch break is over. Good luck on your quest, Mr. Winchester. Toodles.”

Dean glares at the back of Crowley's head as he walks toward City Hall. He glances down at the signature, Crowley’s making it an even one hundred. Though Dean reads the signature and groans.

_For a Good Time call: Crowley (912) 666-6669_

Dean’s still frowning when his pocket begins to vibrate, and Ghostbusters by Ray Parker, Jr. Begins to play. It takes a few moments for the pieces to fall together.

“Dammit, Sam,” says Dean, pulling out his phone and staring a the unfamiliar number. He frowns as he holds up the phone. “This is Dean.”

“Hello, I’m calling on behalf of Castiel Novak, regarding an appointment for a tour of your facility this weekend,” says a nasal, female voice over the line.

“No, I invited him to go on a ghost tour, not to tour my facility, I don’t even have a facility, I don’t..”

“I was instructed to call and get a date and time for an appointment, I apologize, I wasn’t given the details of the meeting.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever, uh, how about this Friday, eight pm…”

* * *

“Hot date?” asks Dean, walking into the shared bathroom.

“Oh, no, just doing some studying at the library,” says Sam, standing in front of the sink, looking in the mirror.

“You’ve never once gone to the library to study on your own, and you definitely don’t worry about your hair when you do,” says Dean, meeting Sam’s eye in the mirror. “It looks great, by the way.”

“Really?” asks Sam, combing his fingers through his hair again. “Thanks.”

“You gonna tell me her name now, or later?”

“It’s Jess, the girl from the presentation the other day,” says Sam, tearing his eyes away from the mirror to meet Dean’s. “We have a class together, and she asked me to study. Right now it’s about fifty-fifty, could be a date, could be really studying."

“Hm, is it a class that actually requires studying?” asks Dean.

“We have a test on Monday,” says Sam, mouth twisting into a worried scowl.

“Eh, she was checkin’ you out at that Angel thing, I’d say it’s more like sixty-forty, leaning toward date.”

“We’ll see, I guess,” says Sam, taking in a deep breath before exhaling slowly at himself in the mirror. “Gotta go, can’t be late.”

“Bring protection,” shouts Dean over his shoulder as Sam pauses for his books before stomping downstairs.

An evening to himself. Dean quietly weighs his options. Beers at the Roadhouse. Porn and jerking it at home. It’s the thought of porn that has Dean diving for his phone.

_Wayward67,_

_I have avoided opening the app too much today because I go straight to your pictures. I must confess, I have been thinking about you more and more, to the point of distraction. I want to know more about you, who you are, what you do, and whether this intense attraction I feel translates into real chemistry._

_Wishing you a pleasant day,_

_Thursday00_

Dean’s heart hammers away at his ribs as he reads the email. A meeting is back on the table—he can hardly believe it. This sexy man he’s been sexting wants to meet up. Finally.

Balancing his outdated iPhone against a pillow on the couch, Dean fusses with the settings, the timer, the filter. Why does taking nudes have to be so damn complicated? When he can finally frame himself from neck to thighs he gives a satisfied hum and rips off his clothes until he’s down to just his panties. Sky blue satin, form-fitting around his package.

The anticipation alone coaxes his dick, and a few long strokes brings him to full mast. He watches himself on his own phone screen as he touches himself.

Does it make him vain that he’s getting hard watching himself?

Probably.

Dean pulls the crotch of his panties out of the way, freeing his cock and balls. He leans down to turn on the timer. Three seconds. Dean strands back up and notices he’s no longer centered. By the time he is, the picture is already taken. He tries again. And again. And once more for good measure.

Reviewing the pictures, Dean quickly deletes all the blurry motion shots and one where his face is clearly visible. The last one he likes.

The angle from the couch up is flattering, making his thighs and dick appear in the foreground, but his stomach and chest are also visible, all the way up to the very bottom of his scruffy chin.

Dean has to admit—it’s a hot picture. He’s grinning devilishly as he sends it over to Thursday, along with a message.

**Wayward67** : what would u do to me

The apartment is empty. Dean brings the laptop into his bedroom and shuts the door, anyways. Never hurts to be cautious. He opens up the incognito browser and starts to type in his favorite porn address before he pauses. Dean opens up a search instead.

Sexy Men Tramp Stamps.

Dean frowns at the results. It would take some time to sort through the tattoo regrets and tired demotivational posters to find anything remotely sexy enough to entice him. A ringing alert from the phone derails that thought.

**Thursday00** : I want to rip those panties off of you, feel the satin fabric give in my hands, then grip those thighs, and kiss my way down your tight stomach. Want to see your cock leaking just for me.

**Wayward67** : damn

**Thursday00** : Does it turn you on to know that I think about sucking your cock while I’m at work? That I’m thinking about how far I could take you in my throat this very moment.

Shit, this guy has a dirty imagination and Dean can’t come up with more than single word answers. There’s never an issue when speaking to people in person, but Dean’s texting skills are severely lacking. Dean strokes himself slowly in order to last longer. He’s dying to know how far this guy is willing to go.

**Wayward67** : turns me on alot

**Thursday00** : I would grab your ass with both hands while sucking your cock. Do you like having your ass played with? Because I fantasize about licking you open and fingering you while you come down my throat.

**Wayward67** : fck

**Thursday00** : would you let me eat you out?

Dean’s movements accelerate. Of course, he would let a sexy guy eat out his ass, it’s only been his number one fantasy for years. No girl had ever offered, and the few men he had been with were strictly hands and a couple of blowjobs. This man sounds like a dream come true.

**Wayward67** : hell yeah let me sit on ur face

Okay, that was dirty. Dean feels slightly embarrassed, but he shuts his eyes, tilts his head back, and strips his cock. Lust quickly chases away any shame.

**Thursday00** : Can I get you to come for me?

**Wayward67** : close

**Thursday00** : I want you to come thinking about my tongue in your hole while you’re grinding on my face.

He read the sentence once—then again, and that’s all it takes. Dean grunts as he comes hard into his own fist. His climax is over too quickly, and already his brain sends regrets. Regrets that he wants this man, but can’t have him. Regrets because he wishes he could share such a euphoric moment with the person that inspired it.

It’s another hassle, positioning his phone and holding still while trying to keep his stomach tight. He settles on a picture of his spent cock laying chubby on his thigh, and a pool of come in his naval with additional strands dripping lower. Slick white against sweaty, freckled skin.

Uploading. Sent.

**Wayward67** : would much rather have aimed that load at ur tattoo I want to use that thing as a bullseye

**Thursday00** : I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in a long while.

**Wayward67** : we should meet

**Thursday00** : Date and Time.

When to meet, when to meet. Dean concentrates on the dilemma as he cleans up his mess. The come and sweat made the satin panties a death trap that had to be carefully untangled. 

A day date could be good because it’s easy to beg out if the chemistry isn’t there. But if it is there, it’s less likely they’ll end up rushing home to roll in the sheets at noon on a Sunday.

An evening date is much more indicative of romance, but Dean has full tours both days of the weekend, and can’t get out until after ten. Any date after ten falls squarely into the ‘possibly just a booty call’ category. Is that what he wants from Thursday?

**Wayward67** : Saturday night ten o’clock moon river

**Thursday00** : See you there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday: Before they can meet, The Ghost Tour with Castiel happens :)


	5. Ghost Tour

“Uh, you’re drinking before the job, now?” asks Sam, walking up from the sub-basement level.

Dean ignores his brother and takes another long swig of his beer. He pauses to give a long ‘ahh’ before setting his beer down on the counter. “Everything set up downstairs?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, walking behind the counter to stand beside Dean. “You wouldn’t be uh, nervous about tonight, would you?”

“No,” says Dean, punctuating the sentence with another long sip. He was only trying to convince Castiel Novak, the man responsible for the Marshall House’s impending doom, that he should spare the structure based on the fact that it might be haunted. No reason to be nervous at all.

“Uh huh, well, just treat it like any other tour,” says Sam, giving that helpful smile that always reminds Dean of Sammy as a child. Naive, but trying to help.

“What about you?” asks Dean, gesturing toward Sam’s gray cardigan over a striped shirt. “You’re a little dressed up for a regular Friday night tour.”

“I’m pretty sure it was a date last night, so I wanted to make a good impression,” says Sam. He tugs at the collar of his undershirt. “Not too much, is it?”

“Nah,” says Dean, taking another swig before setting the bottle down. “I’m glad you got a date.”

“What about you? Still talking to Thursday-zero-zero?”

“I like that,” says Dean, smirking. “Sounds like a secret agent.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“We agreed to meet,” says Dean, kneeling down to access a cabinet beneath the counter. He pulls out their ghost hunting equipment: two old digital cameras, a homemade EMF meter, and small bags of rock salt. Dean stands back up, his elbow knocking his beer bottle. Amber liquid goes flying.

“Shit,” says Dean, opening a different cabinet to grab paper towels. Sam grabs the equipment, pulling it away from the puddle. It takes half the roll to stem the flood. Dean’s still throwing away soiled towels when the first family arrives.

The new additions of Castiel and his date make an almost full tour for the night. Bobby shows up, parked outside in the company van which resembles a small bus. Dean can see him nodding off behind the steering wheel, cap pulled down over his face. He’s still staring when a shiny black car pulls up, and Castiel Novak steps out of the back.

Castiel is wearing a navy suit and tie. Dean stares down at his own jeans and buttoned up plaid shirt with his name tag prominently displayed over his heart. The other car door opens and Meg steps out wearing white jeans, a form-fitting floral shirt, and red flats.

“You’re aware we do walking on this tour?” asks Dean as Castiel and Meg approach. The car drives away. “What, you call an Uber?”

“My driver,” says Castiel, turning to watch the car disappear around the corner. “I wasn’t sure what to tell him about the time limit on something like this. I’ll text him once we’re finished.”

Dean shakes his head and gestures towards the door. “We're waiting on more people, you can come inside.”

Some customers sit on the benches on the first floor, but most are milling about downstairs looking at the displays on the walls. Tokens from several haunted sites around the city. A map of the tour’s route. Information about the sites they would be visiting. And an entire wall of their photographs containing suspicious elements. There’s a small section of books for sale, all referencing the supernatural and some plastic pirate swords.

Castiel and Meg hesitate in the main room for only a second before walking downstairs.

The door opens again, and in walked Jess wearing jeans and a Savannah Law shirt. She immediately waves at Sam behind the counter and walks over.

“Hey Jess, glad you could make it,” says Sam, a dopey smile on his face.

“Of course, not every day I get to see a ghost,” says Jess, grinning. “This is so exciting! I don’t really know what to expect.”

“Simple,” says Dean, leaning into the conversation. “We drive the group around to a few haunted locations, talk about the history of the spirits,” Dean picks up one of the cameras, “we snap some pics, take a look around, then back to home base.”

“Have you ever gotten any photographic proof of the ghosts?” asks Jess.

“It’s, uh, downstairs,” says Sam, stumbling into a bar stool as he gestures for Jess to follow. They pass Castiel and Meg on the stairs.

“Did you take all of those photographs on the wall downstairs?” asks Castiel, walking up to the bar across from Dean. Meg opts to sit on one of the benches and becomes engrossed in her phone.

“Some me, some Sam, some our part-time help, Garth, he helps when Sam has school stuff,” says Dean. Castiel stares hard with bright blue eyes. It’s unsettling. Dean does his best to crane his neck around Castiel, looking for new arrivals.

“How do you take them?” asks Castiel.

“With standard digital cameras, then we print them using an old printer upstairs and photograph paper,” says Dean, pushing the cameras on the bar closer to Castiel for inspection. “There’s nothing special about the equipment, and none of those pictures are altered in any way -- no photoshop magic.”

Castiel hums and fingers one of the cameras, as though considering it. “I can understand why you sell the paranormal books, but why the pirate swords?”

“Pirate House is one of the stops, the kids usually beg for them,” said Dean, shrugging. “They sell out a lot.”

“ _Ten Most Haunted Spots in America_ ,” says Castiel, tilting his head as he watches Dean’s response to the tile. “You carry more of this book than any other, and I noticed the author’s name. John Winchester?”

“Yeah, my dad,” says Dean, meeting Castiel’s stare with a hard glare. “He wrote the book, it was a New York Times Best Seller, my father died before he could finish the sequel. Ghost hunting all over America--this is our family business.”

“Intriguing,” says Castiel.

The last of the group arrives, and Dean herds the group toward the van. There’s Sam chatting up Jess, Meg glued to her screen, three different families with the same tired parents with their one and a half kids. There's still room in the van, but it’s mostly full. Dean locks up the shop behind them, walking up to find Castiel standing outside of the van, staring up at their family house.

“Your house is very old,” says Castiel.

“Uh, yeah, get in the van,” says Dean.

“Is it one of the stops of the tour?” asks Castiel.

“We’re leaving from there, genius, so obviously…”

“I meant to inquire whether or not your house was haunted?”

Dean exhales loudly through his nose and jerks his chin toward the van. “You’re holding up the entire group. Some of these people are paying for this tour.”

Dean climbs in after Castiel and waits until he’s seated before lifting up the handheld mic for the speaker system.

“Alright, folks, welcome to Winchester Ghost Tours, we’ve got a few different stops tonight, not all of them are walking accessible, but there will be plenty to see. Our first stop is the Pirate House.”

Dean pauses for the kids to clap and hoot.

It’s automatic. The spiel. History might repeat itself, but speaking about it rarely changes. Dean recites the histories and ghost stories from memory, pausing at different stops to allow the group to step out of the van and take photos.

The cemetery is always one of the most popular stops. The van parks and everyone files out prepared to wander through the ancient, crumbling gravestones--many dating back hundreds of years.

During the walk through the cemetery, Sam takes over, talking about the notable figures buried within the famous grave sites, and stories about ghost sightings. Dean pulls out his camera and snaps a few photographs.

“Why are you taking pictures of no one?” asks a deep voice in Dean’s ear. He jumps at the surprise, turning to glare at Castiel.

“What the hell, man, don’t sneak up on me in this cemetery, it’s haunted,” says Dean, snapping more photographs.

“You know that it’s haunted? How?” asks Castiel.

“Because it’s old, there’s tons of bodies here, and sometimes we catch really weird stuff in the pictures here,” says Dean. He holds up his camera and immediately gasps. “Shit, like this, check it.”

Dean spoke louder than intended. Meg and a few older kids overhear and gather around. Dean holds up the camera, scrolling through the most recent photographs. “See those?” He turns the camera to make sure the entire crowd sees it.

“The spots?” asks one of the older boys.

“Yeah, they’re called  _orbs_ , and the hypothesis is that they’re spirits trying to make contact,” says Dean. “See, ghosts tend to cause strange things to happen to all different types of electronics. That’s why I have this.” Dean hands the camera to Castiel as he unpacks his EMF detector--a converted cassette player with green and red wires exposed. “This little baby picks up electromagnetic frequencies, a sure sign of supernatural activity.”

“I believe those orbs are actually the result of a dirty lens,” says Castiel, frowning as he holds up the camera. “Did you spill something on this?”

“No,” says Dean, before remembering the beer. “Yes.”

Castiel takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and uses it to clean the lens. Who even carries around handkerchiefs? And Dean swears he saw embroidery on that cloth. Castiel uses the camera to take another photograph of the nearest grave. “Ah, much better now.”

The new photo is much clearer, and there are definitely zero orbs.

“You scared them away,” says Dean. He holds Castiel’s eye in a glare as he turns on his EMF device. It hums away in his hands, the lights blinking green as it emits a clicking noise. “This’ll tell us if ghosts are around.” Castiel’s eyes move while the rest of his body remains unnaturally still. “It’s homemade.”

“Obviously,” says Castiel.

“Well, if we can walk back to the van now,” says Sam, holding up a hand to regain everyone’s attention, “we’re off to look for more ghosts at our next stop…”

Dean keeps the EMF detector out as he walks back to the van. It clicks wildly for a brief moment, then turns off. Dean glares as he smacks the side of the modified cassette player.

“Your camera,” says Castiel, appearing suddenly.

“Dammit, you’re gonna give me a goddamn heart attack, what do you want?” asks Dean, putting his detector away in his jacket pocket.

“You walked away without your camera.”

Dean frowns and takes the camera, shoving it into his leather jacket pocket. “Time to get in the van.”

The next stop allows visitors to walk through the haunted house. Sam leads the entire group through the entrance, but Meg opts to wait outside with Dean.

“Too scared to tour the basement?” asks Dean.

“Oh, no, but they said it was dusty, and I’m wearing white pants,” says Meg, fluttering her lashes at Dean. “Though I wouldn’t mind getting dirty if certain other parties were involved.”

“Uh,” Dean whips his head around to ensure they’re alone. Bobby’s in the van, but it’s far enough away that he likely can’t hear. “I thought you and Cas were here together?”

“We came here together,” says Meg, smirking. “Our relationship is a complicated one.”

“So what are you to him, exactly?” asks Dean.

“Have you ever heard of a beard?” asks Meg, giving a short snort of laughter. Dean’s hand immediately flies to his chin where a couple days stubble grows. “I'm joking, don’t worry about it, we live together, and I help him out at work, but my current status is single and ready to mingle with handsome Ghostbusters.”

“We are not Ghostbusters,” says Dean, frowning. Members of the group begin to emerge. Sam answers one of the dad’s questions, Jess laughs at a little girl with braids, and Castiel walks out last. He stares up at every architectural element of the building as if seeing a building for the first damn time.

“What the hell is wrong with him,” Dean asks, aloud.

“Strange bird,” says Meg, snickering. “His family is weird, he grew up with tutors, and worked for his dad through college, so he never had much socialization. It shows.”

“Kinda awkward,” says Dean.

“It’s part of his charm,” says Meg, smiling as she walks to meet Castiel. They link elbows and board the van together.

The last stop of the tour is the main show--the Marshall House. Dean takes over to give Sam a break, but he’s also been waiting for this moment.

“The Marshall House,” says Dean, pausing to turn around and stare up at the four-story building with its arches, hanging plants, and rows of windows.

“Now this beauty was originally built back in eighteen fifty-one, which is right in the middle of which war…” Dean points at the girl with the braids.

“Civil War.”

“That’s right,” says Dean, winking at the girl. “You see, this building was used as a hospital for Union soldiers, and those are some of the ghosts haunting this place. When renovations were done on the floors, they discovered human remains. When it operated as a hotel over a hundred years later, people reported sightings of full specters, Union soldiers walking around--some hear a man’s voice calling for a surgeon.

“There’s also a famous pair of twins haunting the grounds. People have seen the misty shapes of two children, and others have felt someone tickling their feet while sleeping over in the hotel, only to wake up and find no one there.”

A couple of the kids look back and forth between themselves. One shivers visibly.

“The saddest part of this landmark’s history is yet to come, though,” says Dean, turning his gaze to Castiel who stands listening intently. “The house is in danger of being demolished, disrupting these spirits, and taking away this haunted legacy for good. All because some douchebag with us tonight needs to afford a personal driver.”

One of the mothers yelps and slaps her hands over her young son’s ears.

Sam elbows Dean in the side, but he merely grunts and smirks at Castiel.

“Mom, what’s a douchebag?” asks one of the young girls.

“That,” says Dean, pointing at Castiel before Sam can karate chop his hand down. “Ow,” Dean sucks air through his teeth.

“Why does the douchebag want to kill the ghosts?” asks the same girl.

“There’s no danger there,” says Castiel, stepping forward. “The ghosts are most certainly already dead. And potentially imaginary.”

Bobby pulls up and Sam practically shoves the guests back onto the van. “Alright guys, we’re driving back to the shop now, hope everyone enjoyed their stay.”

“Moooooom,” whines a little blond boy, “I want to see a ghost!”

“You volunteering, kid?” asks Dean, staring down the brat.

“Dean,” hisses Sam, drawing his finger across his throat.

Dean sits in the van, brooding like a toddler in time-out. He blocks out the rest of Sam’s speech as they drive back to the shop. Dean hops out first, rushing to unlock the door. He walks inside, and it’s straight to the register. It’s nice to put some distance between himself and the guests, as well as his frustration towards Castiel Novak.

He glares when Castiel walks into the shop and approaches the counter. “You never gave me a price.”

“It’s free, I invited you to show you some of the haunted spots,” says Dean.

“I would feel better if I could pay,” says Castiel, “and I would also like to buy a copy of your father’s book.”

“Uh, sure,” says Dean, reaching under the counter into a drawer. “Got one, right here.”

“I enjoyed the tour, you know so much about this city’s history,” says Castiel, waiting patiently as Dean logs into the register and calculates the bill.

“So you know the history, now are you double thinking your stance?” asks Dean.

Castiel squints at Dean for a moment before sighing. “Dean, this project is for the good of the city. I’m afraid I do not believe in….in ghosts. These ‘orbs’ you claim are caused by dirty lenses or dust motes and lens flares. It’s natural to feel a creeping sensation when wandering through the dark, it’s why haunted houses and horror movies are so popular. But it doesn’t prove the existence of spirits--not at the Marshall House. Not anywhere.”

“You’re not convinced, I get it,” says Dean, staring hard into Castiel’s eyes. So blue. “These tours, they’re designed for kids and tourists. You can still see some good stuff, but it’s not every time. I know that. So, let me show you. Let me take you to a haunted place, do a really thorough investigation, at night. I’m sure we can find something to change your mind.”

“You truly believe in ghosts?” asks Castiel.

“You’re goddamn right,” says Dean, his face a mask of determination.

“Very well,” says Castiel, nodding as he digs into the pocket of his suit. “Construction isn’t slated to begin immediately. I will have my assistant call you again, and arrange for another meeting, at the haunted site of your choosing. This was rather informative and enjoyable so perhaps it will be a fun outing.”

“Just to be clear,” says Dean, pausing the transaction to make eye contact again, “this isn’t for fun. This is to prove a point. I don’t enjoy spending time with the enemy, alright? As long as you’re Angel Construction, we can’t be friends.”

"You called me a douchebag in front of a small child, I believe I understand that point," says Castiel.

“Then I hope you don’t scare easily,” says Dean, a smirk lighting up his face.

“What you said, on the video…”

“Video? What video,” asks Dean.

“The one from the news. About this city’s soul. I want you to know, my company intends to improve this city. I think you’ll see that that is greater than the plight of some potential spiritual residents. After all, every house over a certain age has a history of past residents. It doesn’t mean we stop progress. We rebuild, but keep the heart.”

“And I think, once I convince you about the spirits, you should stop your company from desecrating their haunting grounds. That’ll be forty-seven fifty.”

The night is a success. Not only because of the money earned, but also because Castiel Novak was still considering his argument. Dean still had a chance to save the Marshall House, and his business.

* * *

 

Dean’s still flying on good feelings when he lays down in his pajamas and logs onto the dating app later that night.

_Wayward 67,_

_The prospect of meeting fills me with so much hope, but I am making sure to hold out no expectations. I look forward to getting to know you._

_Sincerely,_

_Thursday00_

Dean chuckles as he pulls up an instant message to send to Thursday.

**Wayward67** : Getting to know u. How about a little q n a

**Thursday00** : What about the internet stranger danger? You may feel safer once we meet face to face on Saturday.

**Wayward67** : well we just won’t talk about work, family or cc info and ssns

**Thursday00** : I can try.

**Wayward67** : Tell me why you’re single.

Dean considers that maybe Thursday was expecting something sexier than such a blunt question, but it’s a good question. Dean’s curious.

**Thursday00** : I’m single because I work every day, with my family watching over me, and they disapprove of me identifying as gay. Instead of looking for relationships, I throw myself into my work. I am single because I choose to be single rather than upset my family.

**Wayward67** : But u don’t wanna be single anymore?

**Thursday00** : Obviously. Though above all else, as boring as it sounds, I am seeking a friend.

**Wayward67** : I remember ur first email said that. So how upset are we talking here. Ur family

**Thursday00** : They would never disown me or anything quite so biblical. But I worried for many years that I might be asked to retire from our family business to avoid “tarnishing” our image.

**Wayward67** : that sucks, so you could get fired for dating a man, but you still wanna date a man

**Thursday00** : I am 30 and have never experienced a serious relationship. I believe I am finally coming to a place in my business where my family would find me indispensable. It’s the perfect time to begin dating publicly. And I feel I have waited long enough.

**Wayward67** : ur not some kinda 30 yr old virgin are you?

**Thursday00** : Do I seem like a virgin to you?

Dean licks his lips as he types out his answer.

**Wayward67** : no.

**Thursday00** : My turn to ask-- why are you single?

Dean chokes on the beer he was sipping. Of course turnabout is fair play, but still. It’s a loaded question.

**Wayward67** : um, im single because I haven’t met the right guy yet

**Thursday00** : But you also date women.

**Wayward67** : im single because i haven't met the right person yet

**Thursday00** : What about the woman before? You seemed to imply it was serious.

**Wayward67** : yeah well, she had a kid, and i grew attached to them both, but when she moved I stayed. I got a brother to think about and my own business here so I couldn’t leave for her, so she left me. End of story. I’m single now because I prefer short relationships.

There’s a pause. Long enough that dean starts to re-read his response and panics that maybe it’s too long, too honest, or too dishonest. Was he really that bad? Sure, he liked to pick up now and then, but it wasn’t like he was against relationships, he just never wanted any. Not since Lisa left him.

**Thursday00** : It seems we are both similar because we put our family and work before relationships.

Dean heaves a sigh of relief.

**Wayward67** : yeah. It does.

**Thursday00** : If I might ask another follow up question: How did you get into wearing women’s panties?

Dean grins. Now  _that_  is a better question.

**Wayward67** : I was 19 and a chick made me try on her panties

**Thursday00** : Made you?

**Wayward67** : she asked me, but she was very persuasive. And i kinda liked them.

**Thursday00** : Do you always wear frilly panties? And if so, what color panties are you wearing today?

**Wayward67** : I thought we were taking turns asking questions

**Thursday00** : I apologize if I got over excited…

Dean stands up from his bed and tugs at his pajama pants. The panties of the day are black satin with a tiny pink bow in the front. Dean holds out his camera facing toward him, keeps his pants pulled down with the other hand, and snaps a picture.

Uploading. Sent.

**Thursday00** : I approve of your collection. Every time I see you in panties I find myself breathless.

**Wayward67** : Well, I’ll have to wear a really nice pair on Saturday night.

**Thursday00** : You might make it impossible for me to keep my hands to myself.

**Wayward67** : oh i meant to tell u, i took ur advice

**Thursday00** : Which advice is that?

**Wayward67** : fighting back, against the guy that’s trying to hurt my business. I even started a petition. I owe you one

**Thursday00** : Then I am extremely happy for you. Congratulations on taking a stand, I hope you really stick it to this person.

**Wayward67** : he’s not a bad guy, really. Just what he represents

**Thursday00** : What does he represent?

**Wayward67** : the end of my business

**Thursday00** : Then I wish you the best of luck.

**Wayward67** : can’t wait to meet you tomorrow

**Thursday00** : Likewise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter, the meeting of Dean and Thursday


	6. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting of Dean and Thursday arrives!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the people commenting and reading along, this story is finished and will update every Thursday and Monday unless otherwise noted. Thanks for your support!

“Whoa, you don’t usually shower just to go to the Roadhouse,” says Sam, hovering in the apartment still wearing his jeans and plaid shirt from the night’s tour. He stares into their shared bathroom where Dean’s already dressed.

“Not going to the Roadhouse,” says Dean, scrubbing his head with a towel to dry his hair. He’s wearing his favorite Metallica shirt over his best jeans. The pair that hugs his ass just right and doesn’t require a belt. Belts just get in the way.

“Hot date?” asks Sam, concern creasing his brow.

“Yup,” says Dean, tossing the wet towel into the laundry basket.

“At…” Sam pulls out his phone and lights up the screen, “…nine thirty?”

“We’re meeting at ten,” says Dean.

“What kinda date meets at ten?” asks Sam.

Dean catches Sam’s eye and winks.

“Is this your same dating app friend?” asks Sam, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yup,” says Dean, looking through the products on the sink counter and choosing his favorite gel. The kind that spikes his hair up just the right amount.

“Well, she must be something else to get you working this hard,” says Sam, grinning.

She.

Dean should correct him—it’s not like Sam’s ever judged before—but he doesn’t. He combs the gel through his short hair with his fingertips then wipes his hands on a hand towel. “Gotta make that good first impression, Sammy.”

Sam loses interest while Dean continues to primp, shaving and dabbing himself with aftershave. Dean pulls up the dating app and smiles when he sees a message from Thursday.

_Wayward67,_

_I am looking forward to our meeting tonight. I have a previous engagement with my family before our meeting and apologize in advance if this causes me to be late. Know that I am trying to be there on time and thrumming with excitement at finally getting to meet you—face to face._

_Sincerely,_

_Thursday00_

Dean smirks as he angles the forward facing camera down and takes a picture of his outfit.

_Heading out soon. Here’s what I’m wearing. I kept my face out of it, so we will really be meeting face to face finally. See you soon._

Dean hits send on the message and the photo. He’s still grinning at his phone when he wanders out into the main area where Sam’s sitting at the table on his laptop.

“So you’re sure this person is safe?” asks Sam, looking up from his typing. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, Sam, I’m not some fourteen-year-old going to my first prom, I’ll be fine…”

“But the prostitute…”

“This time it’s not a prostitute.”

“Have you talked to them over Skype at all?”

Dean hesitates…

“You haven’t talked to them in person? Skype? Telephone? Only on the dating app?”

Dean averts his eyes…

“Dean, this is serious, what if this is some kinda Catfish situation! Or, some kinda serial killer?”

“Then I’ll deal with it, I’m meeting in public, I’m not an idiot, I won’t let anyone alone with my drink, calm down…..”

“Please tell me you’ve at least seen a picture of this girl,” says Sam.

“I’ve seen plenty of pictures...”

“Okay good.”

“…from the neck down,” says Dean, shrugging.

Sam sputters and shakes his head as he quickly clicks around on his computer. “Gonna need a cat video to bleach that image from my mind, I don’t need to know about your sexting habits, Dean…”

“Well, you were the one prying into my business,” says Dean, shrugging as he picks his wallet up from the counter. He shrugs and holds out his arms. “How do I look?”

“Normal.”

“Normal? I was going for sexy…”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” says Sam, clicking something no the computer. Adorable meowing sounds fill the apartment.

“Alright, don’t wait up,” says Dean.

“Be safe,” says Sam, pausing to watch Dean walk down the stairs, “and call me if you need me.”

* * *

“Good to know your brother is still a world-class bore,” says Balthazar in his lilting accent. He unbuttons another button on his dress shirt beneath a tweed jacket. “I thought that meeting would never end.”

“Michael has been sidled with a large responsibility,” says Castiel, holding open the door out of the main offices of Angel Corporation’s Savannah division. “The family owes him dearly.”

“Oh, fuck all,  _owe_ him,” says Balthazar, sneering as he surveys the area. “Where’s your car?” Castiel points and Balthazar gives a quick nod before walking on. “Michael is only out to help himself.”

“That would be Nick,” says Castiel, frowning.

“We’re not allowed to call him Luci anymore, I take?” asks Balthazar, smirking.

“Once our Father disappeared, he changed all of his official documents,” says Castiel. “It seemed a reasonable request.”

“Naming your son after the devil,” says Balthazar. “Your family isn’t known for being reasonable, Cassie. Still, at least Luci is open about what he is, not hiding behind some familial duty like Michael.”

“Michael is afraid that Nick will try to take over the company,” says Castiel as the pair reaches the black town car. The driver opens the door and holds it for both men as they step inside. “Thank you, could you drop us off at the Hyatt?”

“You’re coming back to my hotel?” asks Balthazar, raising an eyebrow once they’re alone in the backseat of the car. “I thought you had a  _date_.” Balthazar makes the word sound dirty.

“My date is meeting near your hotel,” says Castiel, clearing his throat.

“You think Michael has a point? About Luci?” asks Balthazar.

“I’m not sure,” says Castiel. The car starts up, and he stares out the window, avoiding Balthazar’s inquisitive stare. “Nick’s division makes the most profit, and he’s grown to be the one that the Board looks to for major decision—even those that don’t affect his projects. I think he’s definitely out for more power within the company.”

“If Luci’s so productive, what’s the problem with letting him take over? Maybe you’re backing the wrong brother…”

“Lu--that is, Nick isn’t afraid to bend the rules,” says Castiel, frowning. “He’s gotten the company into some tight spots in the past. Michael does everything to keep the company going and would never risk something happening to the company. That’s why he’s looking to me to take on more responsibility, and support him.”

“No pressure,” says Balthazar, snorting to himself. “Where’s your other brother in all this?”

“Gabriel wants nothing to do with the company, anymore,” says Castiel, shrugging in his suit coat. “He was only working for the corporate branch to appease Father. Without Him, Gabriel stopped showing up for work. I haven’t heard from him in over two months now. Last I heard, he was golfing in Hawaii and dating a model.”

“How posh,” says Balthazar, snickering. “Your brother’s living in paradise, while you’re stuck in this backwoods town forced to date the locals. Seems fair.”

“I don’t mind Savannah,” says Castiel, turning to meet Balthazar’s gaze. “Truthfully. Savannah is a nice city. I enjoy the projects. I sincerely believe my work will benefit the City, and having an expert like you behind the wheel means it will be done right. I’m proud of this project. I just pray it goes smoothly…”

“I don’t even understand the issue, honestly,” says Balthazar, tapping his fingers against the armrest on the car door. “Some local is throwing a pissy fit because of…ghosts?”

“Ghosts,” says Castiel, nodding. “It’s really just one person at this point. Probably nothing. Still, I can’t afford to let anything get in the way. Michael is already upset about the bad press, and Nick is waiting for me to fail to use it as proof of Michael’s ineptitude.”

“So, pay off some voodoo priestess to ensure this superstitious hillbilly that the ghosts approve of my plans, and will gladly relocate to the new, improved building!”

“If only it were so easy,” says Castiel, sighing. “Dean Winchester is a driven, passionate man. The news enjoyed running his segment. He looks good on camera.”

“Oh, now I have to see,” says Balthazar, fighting back laughter.

The car continues to make its way to the riverside area while Balthazar pulls up the news video on his phone and watches. Castiel’s seen the video so many times he’s almost got it memorized. He knows it’s almost over by the newscaster’s commentary. “We do hope that Mr. Winchester is successful in his mission to save our City’s soul.”

“Save our souls,” says Balthazar, laughing down at his phone. “What a joke. Though I’ll admit, he is a handsome man.”

“He is as stubborn and difficult as he is attractive,” says Castiel.

“Ouch, that bad?” asks Balthazar, snickering. “So, tell me more about this date, Cassie.”

“I’ve been lonely here,” says Castiel, turning to stare out the window. Familiar buildings pass by the window as they approach the hotel. “Meg is a good companion, but I miss my friends in Houston.”

“I’m sorry, love,” says Balthazar.

“Don’t be,” says Castiel, pressing his lips into a thin smile. “I’m very much looking forward to this date.”

“So tell me about him,” says Balthazar, turning his head about when the car pulls into the drop off lane for the hotel.

“We met on a dating site, he’s local, we have engaging conversations, and I find his pictures particularly appealing, even if they all exclude his face,” says Castiel, pausing as the car stops and the driver walks around to the side. “I’m rather nervous to meet him, but I have high hopes.”

“Do you want me to come along?” asks Balthazar.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” says Castiel.

“What if he turns out to be a serial killer?”

“I doubt that there haven’t been any strings of unsolved murders in this city for over…”

“Well, okay, what if he’s a dog?”

“No, he’s able to use a mobile device so that indicates he has opposable thumbs.”

“No, I mean what if he’s gross? Fugly? Quasimodo meets the Phantom of the Opera meets Elephant Man? You said none of the pictures show a face, maybe he’s hiding something…”

“His identity, I believe,” says Castiel. “And besides, even if his looks were not traditionally handsome, I would still like to meet him. It’s not always the physical that draws me to another person. I enjoy talking to him.”

“Texting with him,” corrects Balthazar. “Couldn’t hurt to have a back-up. I’ll just go with you to the door, walk you in, then I can leave. Tell you what, I’ll text you thirty minutes into the date, too, and if you’re looking for a way out, you can claim that someone died on the construction site and you have to leave at once because you can’t have any more ghosts haunting your project!”

Castiel adjusts his trench coat and stares across the road. “If you’re sure you don’t have anywhere to be.”

“I have absolutely nowhere to be, are you kidding? It’s already ten o’clock, I’m stuck in a hotel in this ghastly city and my only friend is you.”

“Walk me to the brewery, and look inside, and as long as the man is around twenty-seven as his profile claimed, and waiting as specified…”

“Ooh, this is going to be fun,” says Balthazar. He grabs Castiel’s arm as they cross the street and walk through throngs of late-night tourists until they reach the front of the Moon River Brewery.

“Alright, my date for the evening is supposed to be seated at a table for two, wearing a Metallica t-shirt—black, and likely has already ordered a couple beers as I am running…” Castiel has to check his phone, “…twenty minutes late.”

Balthazar rubs his hands together and waggles his eyebrows at Castiel. “Look at me, the first one to see Cassie’s dream boy.”

Nonchalant, Balthazar takes a step forward and glances back into the bar through the front windows. He looks around, as though considering the place and does a quick double-take.

“You see him.” Castiel watches Balthazar’s reactions for the slightest change.

“Uhhh,” Balthazar stares for a few breaths too long before ducking out of view and turning to stare at the street, avoiding Castiel’s eyes.

“Well? Did you see him, or not?”

“There is a man inside with a black t-shirt that could have said Metallica across the front. He is sitting alone with two beers, only one touched.”

“And? Is he…” Castiel swallows, suddenly nervous.

“He’s rather handsome, actually…”

“I knew it,” hisses Castiel, pulling his hands from his trench coat pockets to wring them together. “He looks safe? Describe him to me.”

“Um,” Balthazar presses his lips together, “you know, he kind of looks like that ghost enthusiast from the video, that Dean Winchester fellow.”

“Dean Winchester…hmm, yes, Dean is an attractive man, that is good news, right? Dean is…that is good, good news!”

“Yeah, definitely…looks like Dean Winchester.”

“Who cares about Dean Winchester, the man despises me,” says Castiel, turning to peer in the window, only to find himself blocked by Balthazar. “Move, I want to see.”

“How do you know he despises you?” asks Balthazar.

“He called me a douchebag in front of a group of kids on a ghost tour last night.”

“Ouch,” says Balthazar, swallowing loudly. “Well, if you don’t care for Dean Winchester, then I have some bad news…”

Castiel’s brows knit together in confusion before Balthazar sighs and moves out of the way. Castiel immediately stares through the windows where he spies Dean Winchester seated at a table for two wearing a black Metallica shirt and sipping from a half-full beer. Another sits across from him, sweating and untouched.

“For fuck’s sake,” says Castiel, softly, with feeling. He steps away from the window and leans his back against the front of the shop.

“Yikes,” says Balthazar.

Two realities collide. Angry Dean, the concerned citizen who got him in trouble with his brothers and dragged him on a ghost tour only to ridicule him. Delicious Wayward with a tight, tan body and no shyness about jacking off to Castiel’s photos. Surly Dean who always argues and insults. Wayward who flirts and offers honest conversations.

Dean is Wayward.

Seconds stretch into minutes and soon Balthazar is checking his phone.

“Um, you want to go grab a drink with me down the road? There’s a British pub, I’m going to go visit, see what the Americans consider British pub fare, it’ll be good for a laugh and a Guinness even if the food turns out to be inedible.”

“Yes,” says Castiel, nodding his head and pulling his trenchcoat tighter. “Yes, Dean Winchester hates me, there’s no need to go inside and humiliate myself.”

“Good, so we’re getting drinks?” asks Balthazar.

“No,” says Castiel, quietly, then again, louder. “No.”

“No?”

“No, I am going inside to greet my date,” says Castiel frowning.

“But you already said that the man in there hates you.”

“Presently.”

“So you want me to wait here for him to reject you so we can go and get that drink?”

Castiel stares at Balthazar before shaking his head without either having said a word. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine for the night.” And with that, Castiel opened the door, inhaled deeply, and walked toward Dean’s table.

* * *

Dean spins his beer bottle around in its own ring of condensation. The contents are growing warm and he eyes the other bottle enviously.

Thursday’s late—Thursday had warned that he might be late. But as the minutes tick by, Dean starts to worry. He had assumed ten minutes late, running late from traffic kind of late, not ‘my doctor’s office was an hour behind’ kind of late at ten o’clock on a Saturday.

He’d sent the photograph, there was nothing to do but sit and wait. Dean still can’t help turning to look every time the door opens.

In walks a group of girls. A trio of businessmen in suits. A lone man who walks through the door looks around, then walks up to a woman at the bar.

Dean decides to order another beer when the waitress returns. He hasn’t seen her in a while. The search distracts him from the door for a single minute and when he turns back around he is staring into a familiar face.

“Dean,” says Castiel, approaching the table with a stout in his hand. “How nice to see you again so soon.”

Oh, fuck.

Dean grabs his beer and attempts to look around Castiel, hoping his date hadn’t arrived and seen him speaking with the man. “Uh, sure…”

“My assistant only works half a day on Saturdays, but she will be calling you about the ghost hunt first thing on Monday—unless you’ve had second thoughts?”

“Nah, I ain’t gonna change my mind about that, just, kinda busy right now…”

“I am very interested in visited a haunted place,” says Castiel, settling his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Even without any proof of the supernatural, the tour was very entertaining, and I can’t wait to see how you are without an audience. To see a real Ghostbuster in person.”

“First, don’t call me a Ghostbuster, and second, I kinda got something going on here, so if you wouldn’t mind….”

“Ah, sorry,” says Castiel, gesturing toward the empty seat across the Dean at the table. “Are you here with someone?”

“No,” says Dean, not wanting to get into the subject with Castiel Novak of all people. He stutters when Castiel takes the empty seat across from him at the table and sets down his drink. “Look, I’m meeting someone, damn, get up, man.” Dean makes the  _shoo_  motion with both hands.

“Oh, um, my apologies, I’ll just…” Castiel’s head turns as he surveys the area. The table directly behind Dean sits empty and Castiel takes the chair that backs up to Dean. “I started to read your father’s book,” says Castiel.

“Jesus…really? You have to sit right there?” asks Dean, scowling over his shoulder.

“Sorry, I thought maybe we could talk while you wait,” says Castiel.

Dean’s barely listening to the man, trying desperately to look at the door without being obvious. A tall man in a leather jacket with a beard and a slender build is glancing around the location. Could that be Thursday?

“That’s fine, whatever, I’m just…” Dean tries to catch the man’s eye.

“Are you meeting Sam?” asks Castiel.

The man in the leather jacket walks up to meet a group of men already seated. Dean frowns and glances back at the unmoving door.

“No, it’s not Sam, it’s…” Dean cuts himself off and rubs his hands through his hair. He curses when he then has to use his fingers to comb the locks back into place.

“A date, then?”

“Yes,” says Dean, turning in his chair until he can glare at Castiel. “A date. I’m here on a date. They’ll be here any minute, so if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” says Castiel, sipping his drink.

When Castiel makes no movement to indicate he’s leaving, Dean drums his fingers across his table.

“Who’s the person you’re meeting?” asks Castiel.

“Noneya,” says Dean.

“Sounds exotic,” says Castiel.

“It’s a blind date,” says Dean.

Castiel turns his chair until it’s perpendicular to Dean. “A blind date? How exciting.”

Dean snorts to himself, “Yeah, I guess.” He takes a long swig of his very warm beer.

A silence stretches, and Castiel sips his own drink.

The door doesn’t open or close for a while and Dean realizes it’s been almost an hour. It’s starting to look like maybe Thursday wasn’t coming.

A table full of girls glances over at Dean and Castiel sitting back to back and giggling behind their hands. Dean sighs and shakes his head. Yeah, he probably looked weird. Better to have someone sitting at the table than sitting with two beers to one person.

“Look, I guess you can sit here, see if we can’t get another round of drinks,” says Dean.

“Thank you,” says Castiel. He wastes no time before standing up and taking the empty chair at Dean’s table. He sits down with his mostly empty dark beer. “I believe I mentioned I’m reading your father’s book…”

“Yeah,” says Dean. He can’t help the automatic smile. Anytime he thinks about the book and his family. “How do you like it?”

“I find it extremely fascinating,” says Castiel. “I just finished the chapter about the Winchester Mansion.”

“Crazy place,” says Dean, shaking his head as he grins. “That was a great summer. Dad made sure we were there on Friday the thirteenth, and we didn’t tell Sammy anything about the tradition of ringing the bell in the tower thirteen times.” Dean has to pause to fight his own amusement. “Dad told’im the bell was haunted and only rang when the spirits were angry—you shoulda seen his face when they went off.”

“That seems unnecessarily cruel,” says Castiel, seriously.

“Nah, we’re always pranking each other,” says Dean, “Dad was the worst, but Sam and I, we still, well, we’re in a truce now, supposed to be at least…”

“You’re very close with your brother.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” says Dean, nodding. “I mean, growing up, we spent half the year in a car driving around the country with Dad, staying in motels or sleeping in the Impala. The rest of the year, Dad was running his tours out of the house so we were forced to share a shoebox of a room. Not a lotta privacy. We’re still living in the house, though I have Dad’s old room. Still tight quarters.”

“He’s going to law school.”

“Yeah, yeah, super proud of him,” says Dean, pausing to smile down at his empty beer.

“Did you attend college locally?”

“I didn’t attend college, period,” says Dean, chuckling. “I’m too busy running the business, and my dad left me his unfinished book work. I’m gonna complete it, and publish it as the continuation of dad’s first book.”

“You’re an author?” asks Castiel.

“Well, not yet, but I will be,” says Dean, nodding. “Dad left me some pretty clear instructions when he passed, and I don’t plan on letting him down.”

“How old were you when he died?” asks Castiel.

“Nineteen.”

Much too young to have lost both parents. Too young to be raising a teenage brother. Too young, but it’s been a long time.

Just like Dean’s been waiting for a long time.

Thursday has stood him up.

“Last round, can you bring the check?” Dean smiles at the waitress. If he can’t meet Thursday, he’s going to need another beer before he can take the walk of shame back to his house. Might as well share it with his enemy.

“Thanks for the beer, but I feel I should pay you back,” says Castiel, staring at the two empty beer bottles in front of Dean. “What about your date?”

“Yeah, well, he’s really late,” says Dean, reaching down to retrieve his phone before he freezes.  _He_. He slowly moves his eyes without moving his body to take in Castiel’s reaction.

“You’re meeting a man for a date,” says Castiel, his tone factual and not at all shocked.

“Yes,” says Dean, retrieving his phone and choosing to stare at the screen rather than at Castiel, the man whose company is named after a biblical being and opens their corporate meetings with a prayer.

“I do not judge you for dating men,” says Castiel.

“Really? That’s rich coming from the heir apparent of a Christian construction company.”

“I do not hold all the same beliefs as my Father and brothers,” says Castiel, shrugging.

“Well, that’s…” Dean frowns down at his phone. It’s kinda nice, actually. What’s not nice is the empty inbox on the dating app. Thursday hasn’t sent any word about his absence.

“I should probably tell you,” says Dean, pausing to lick his lips. “I’m gonna be picketing your project next week, and I started a petition. I’m already getting signatures and volunteers lined up.”

“Oh,” says Castiel, frowning slightly. “Well, I understand.”

“You do?” asks Dean. The waitress arrives and quietly sets down the drinks with the bill.

“Sure,” says Castiel, smiling. “You’re passionate, Dean. I know that about you.”

Dean stares down at the table and takes another long sip of his beer. “You know, I’m beginning to think my date stood me up.”

“Perhaps they walked in, saw you, and walked out?” asks Castiel, fighting a smirk.

“Impossible,” says Dean, holding ups his beer and grinning at Castiel. “I’m too adorable.” He winks before taking another sip, which serves to make Castiel laugh out loud.

“And so modest,” says Castiel.

“Who knows, man, I never meet people from the Internet, so I don’t know…”

“Oh, a blind date is different from an Internet blind date…”

“It’s the same thing,” says Dean, rolling his eyes.

“What made you want to meet this person?” asks Castiel.

“Uh, pictures, I thought that’d be obvious,” says Dean, snorting into his beer. “He’s a very attractive man.”

“Physical attraction is important for a first date,” says Castiel.

“Yeah,” says Dean, taking another long sip of beer. And maybe he’s starting to get buzzed because for some reason he says, “He’s got this tramp stamp and…wait, I can’t tell you this stuff. It’s private.”

“Fair enough,” says Castiel. “So you think the man is handsome.”

“That’s not the only reason, I’m not a total ass,” says Dean, shrugging with a lopsided grin on his face. “He seems funny like we have a similar sense of humor. We have some work stuff in common too.”

“He’s also a ghost hunter?” asks Castiel.

“I seriously doubt it, though I don’t know what he does, and it’s not like I open with, ‘Hi, I’m Dean, I’m six-foot-one, Aquarius, and hell yeah I believe in ghosts.”

“It would set you apart from others on the site, I’m sure,” says Castiel. “I can’t imagine your date would stand you up on purpose. I’m sure something came up.”

“Yeah, whatever,” says Dean, downing the last of his beer. “Shit happens, I guess.”

“Do you need a ride home?” asks Castiel.

“I walked,” says Dean, standing up and staring at the bill. He opens his wallet and drops two twenties before glancing around the area.

“It’s not terrible, I’m texting my car right now,” says Castiel, pulling out his phone.

His car--his chauffeured vehicle, while Dean can’t afford his own property taxes. But it’s late and Dean’s been drinking so the walk will be extra cold and lonely.

“Alright, I’m going to the can, meet you out front.”

* * *

Castiel walks outside feeling warm, and not just from the beer. Dean is good company. He’s entertaining, easy to talk to, and handsome in his black shirt and jeans. He’s the entire package.

Too bad he hates Castiel and everything he represents.

But if all of that didn’t matter anymore.

After texting his driver, Castiel quickly pens a message.

_Wayward67,_

_A thousand apologies, something very important came up. I hope we can continue to talk because I value our conversations, and would beg another chance to meet in the near future._

_With deep regrets and fond regards,_

_Thursday00_

He holds off on sending the message until Dean is walking out the door. Castiel hits send as the car arrives, and the driver opens the door.

“Our ride,” says Castiel, motioning for Dean to go first. They duck inside and Castiel tells the driver the address. “What are you doing on Wednesday?”

“Excuse me?”

“Wednesday,” says Castiel, clearing his throat. “I am free that evening, for the potential ghost hunt. And that would be days before the demolition. In case you’re able to sway my opinions on ghosts.”

“Wednesday it is,” says Dean, smirking. The car is already pulling up to the brown house. “I don’t have any tours, so show up after work?”

“See you around five-thirty,” says Castiel, smiling as Dean opens the door and steps out.

Dean gives two slaps to the top of the vehicle, waves at the tinted window, and turns towards his house.

Thank god for the dark tint. Castiel can’t take his eyes off of Dean walking up the stairs into his house. He feels guilty for staring--but somehow, he doesn’t feel guilty for having not come clean to Dean about his alter-ego. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Dean demands to see Thursday and things get ~~kinky~~ interesting.


	7. Video Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean convinces Thursday to offer up some proof of identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for commenting and reading along!

“Thank you,” says Dean, accepting the clipboard back from an elderly woman pushing a walker. He holds up another completed signature page. Sam gives a thumbs up and Jess smiles at him, though she’s busy speaking to a group of students.

“That’s three pages for me; one for you,” says Dean, walking closer to Sam.

“You’re standing too close to me, that’s why I’m not getting as many signatures,” says Sam. “Excuse me, sir? Sir? Care to sign a petition to save a historical landmark? Sir? SIR!”

“Hey there,” says Dean, sliding into a crooked grin as he makes eye contact with a young woman in jeans and a long-sleeved Georgia Bulldogs shirt. She listens intently as Dean explains the petition, before signing with a big smile.

“And that’s my personal, um, number,” she says, biting her lip.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” says Dean. He’s still smiling as the girl walks away, glancing back over her shoulder once to flash another flirty grin.

“I think you’re drooling,” says Sam.

Dean wipes his face immediately--though there’s nothing there. “It’s about reading people, that’s all.”

“You haven’t said anything about your date last night, but if you’re not entering that chick’s number into your phone immediately then it must have gone well…”

Dean shrugs. “Something came up, my date didn’t show.”

“Oh, ouch,” says Sam, grinning as a group of women walks past talking quickly and ignoring his puppy eyes and extended petition. “Stood up, you should have called me, I would have walked out to have some drinks with you…”

“I’m a grown ass man, I can have some drinks by myself,” says Dean, before pausing to intercept a woman walking a dog. “Excuse me, would you mind signing a petition to stop the decimation of our city’s cherished landmarks?”

The woman’s happy to sign before continuing her walk.

“I’m gonna walk across the street, I’m tired of you stealing all the signatures,” says Sam, just as Jess comes jogging up.

“Another page full for me,” says Jess, beaming. She holds up her hand and Sam sighs before giving a begrudged high-five.

“Sam’s a sore loser,” says Dean, smirking.

“Dean’s cheating somehow,” says Sam, clutching his clipboard to his chest, “lemme see that sheet, are you just making up names and numbers?”

“I’m offended, really,” says Dean.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like to… _oh_ …” Jess drops off abruptly, and both brothers whip their heads around.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean,” says Castiel. He’s wearing a navy suit under his customary trenchcoat and is flanked by a tall man wearing a suit jacket over a tight shirt and smirking in a way that makes Dean uncomfortable.

“Mr. Novak, um, nice to see you again,” says Sam, exchanging panicked glances with Jess. “We were just, um…”

“I take it this is the petition you mentioned last night?” asks Castiel, leaning over to glance at the lettering at the top of the petition sheet. “To stop the desecration of historical city monuments?”

“...Last night?” asks Sam.

“We’re allowed to voice the concerns of the people,” says Dean. “Sam and Jess are helping but it’s my idea, besides, we have a bet going on.”

“A bet?” asks Castiel.

“Yeah, loser has to go first into the haunted location we’re scouting later this week,” says Dean, waggling his eyebrows.

“Amazing,” says Castiel’s friend in a posh accent. “You really are like a Ghostbuster, Cassie’s told me so much about you, and your ghost tours. I’m Balthazar.”

“You’re Bal the builder,” says Dean.

“The  _architect_ ,” says Balthazar. “I’m in charge of design and aesthetics, darling, nothing as boring as building.”

“Do you mind waiting for me inside?” Castiel asks Balthazar.

Balthazar shrugs and walks toward City Hall’s main entrance.

A group of passing students has Sam and Jess rushing over with clipboards, leaving Dean suddenly alone with Castiel.

“I told you last night, and I meant it--I’m not upset that you’re collecting signatures,” says Castiel, staring at the sidewalk. “I understand you don’t want the Marshall House rebuilt. I don’t hold that against you. If anything, I admire your perseverance.”

“Admire it enough to cancel the project?” asks Dean, raising both eyebrows.

“Dean, how much do you know about Angel Construction?” asks Castiel.

“You mean other than the fact that you guys are trying to turn an authentic, Southern town into some kinda Disney World facade of its former glory?”

“Dean, my Father started this company in hopes of improving peoples’ lives,” says Castiel. “His vision was to go into cities with failing architecture and rebuild it as beautiful as before. He hated the idea of every city in America being redone in glass and steel.

“My Father stepped away from the company, a couple years back, without any instructions. My brother, Michael, is the acting CEO, my brother Nick runs our largest branch, and they’re relying on me.”

“You?” asks Dean. “I thought at that speech they said it was your first solo project?”

“It is,” says Castiel, frowning. “I’m on a probationary period. If I am able to complete my projects without bringing in negative press or garnering operating losses, I’ll be granted more responsibilities within the company. But more than that, I am doing this because I don’t want to disappoint my family.”

“Having a hard time finding much sympathy for you, Cas,” says Dean. “Your company is bad for my company, bottom line.”

“I had a good time at the bar last night,” says Castiel, watching Dean closely. “Did your date ever contact you about their absence?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Dean, glancing around though Sam and Jess are still thoroughly occupied.

“He wasn’t injured, was he?” asks Castiel.

“I dunno,” says Dean, shrugging with his clipboard. “He only told me that, ‘something very important came up’ which seems lame. I haven’t replied yet.”

“Are you going to reply?” asks Castiel.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sure yet,” says Dean, resting the clipboard on his hip. “It doesn’t feel good to get stood up. And it’s all getting a little suspect, I mean, dude’s never shown me his face, stands me up on the date, even if I enjoy talking to him maybe he’s hiding something--I don’t wanna get involved in some kinda Catfish situation.”

“This is like a catfish?”

“Nah man, I just mean if they won’t meet then maybe it’s because they’re lying about something,” says Dean, scoffing. “Those pictures were a little too good to be true.”

“Really?” asks Castiel. It’s hard to tell in the harsh midday sun, but it looks like Castiel is blushing. Could he have (correctly) guessed the subject of some of those photographs?

“Yeah, could be any pictures, maybe he found some model’s shots on the Internet, I don’t know,” says Dean. “I wanna see this guy on video, make sure it’s the right guy.”

“You still want to speak with this person, after they stood you up?” asks Castiel.

“Sure,” says Dean, shifting on his feet. “I’ve been known to miss a date from time to time, it’s something that can happen. Don’t get me wrong, it sucks, but we have enough of a connection that I’m willing to give it another shot. One more shot, rather.”

“That is incredibly understanding of you,” says Castiel, his tone all sincerity and his eyes soft.

“Never call me that again,” says Dean, shaking his head. “Now listen, if you ain’t gonna sign my petition to stop your company…” Castiel’s eyebrows fall into a straight line over his eyes, “…right, then, I’m back to work. I’ll see you on Wednesday. Bring an extra pair of pants. Ghost hunts can get pretty intense.”

Sam and Jess finish with a person right as Castiel rounds the corner into City Hall. “Did you apologize to him?” asks Sam.

“Apologize? Why the hell would I apologize…”

“You attacked him in front of a group of tourists. You called him a douchebag, dude.”

“Oh, whatever, water under the bridge,” says Dean.

“And what was that about  _last night_ , I thought you had a date last night, you said…”

“I know what I said, I told the truth, my date stood me up, but I ran into Cas at Moon River and we had a drink. He’s a privileged asshole but he’s alright--he’s reading Dad’s book. I have big plans for our ghost hunt and, just so you know, you’re going to go into that place first…”

“Not if I get more signatures than you,” says Sam, walking quickly across the street toward a large group of elderly women wearing flamboyant red hats.

* * *

Castiel tries to be patient—he focuses on not staring at his phone all day. Hours tick by, and still no message from Dean. From Wayward.

Was it possible Dean was still walking the streets after dark, hounding bar patrons for signatures to block Castiel’s company? Was it more likely that Dean’s feelings about his missing date had changed since Castiel had spoken with him that afternoon?

The moment Wayward67’s name appears on Castiel’s screen, he starts to type.

**Thursday00** : I wanted to apologize, again, for my absence on Saturday.

**Wayward67** : hey shit happens, if u didn’t wanna meet me I assume u wouldn’t bother with the apologies so hey no prob

**Thursday00** : I worried when you did not reply to my message.

**Wayward67** : nah just busy, that petition I started ain’t gonna sign itself, though I’d rather tell u about it in person than on here. Assuming u still wanna meet.

**Thursday00** : I am still very interested in getting to know you better, but I’m afraid the face to face meeting will need to wait. I’m in the middle of my own rather delicate project.

Castiel frowns at the screen. Maybe he’s giving Dean too little credit. Maybe he would accept Castiel’s apology if he admitted his cowardly actions on Saturday.

But there was too much at stake.

Dean Winchester was an angry citizen with a grudge against Angel Construction. If Castiel admitted that he was the man from the gay dating app, would Dean use the information to hurt his position in his family company? Everyone in his family knew about his sexual orientation, but they had made it clear that it wasn’t a good look for such a conservative Christian company. Would Michael remove him from the project if he began publicly dating a man before he’d proven himself useful to the company?

Castiel wants to trust Dean. He wants to know him better. Surely, good intentions make up for a little moral ambiguity?

**Wayward67** : so I had an idea

Castiel sits up straighter, staring at his phone. He’s not in any position to deny Dean anything, after missing their scheduled date. And thanks to their discussion earlier that day, Castiel knows exactly where this is going.

**Wayward67** : I don’t suppose you have a webcam?

The conversation that afternoon with Dean is forefront in his mind. Dean wants him on video.

**Thursday00** : There is a camera built into my laptop.

**Wayward67** : feel like havin some fun? ;)

**Thursday00** : Would you object to video from the neck down?

Dean had only ever seen him in suits and coats. There was no way he could divine Castiel’s physique from their previous encounters. He glances down at the navy suit he’s still wearing and jumps into action. Castiel removes his navy jacket and tie, leaving only a generic button-down white shirt.

**Wayward67** : kinky ;) nah I get it, save something for the first meeting, keep it anonymous, cool with me

**Thursday00** : It’s more of a security issue. There’s no way to know when something is being recorded. This protects both of us in case the video becomes illicit in nature.

**Wayward67** : so ur okay with illicit video calls?

**Thursday00** : My username is the same on Skype.

Castiel jumps up from the bed and stares across his bedroom. His coat is hung up in the entryway, no risk of identifying himself. A photograph of him and Balthazar in London sits on his desk. Castiel drops the picture flat on its face, hiding the contents.

An incoming message pops onto the screen with a familiar jingle. Castiel stares at the view of his own bedroom and adjusts his posture and computer screen until he’s only visible from the neck down. His buttoned shirt and the top of his navy slacks dominate the screen.

Castiel hits  _accept_.

The video starts first. Castiel's own camera becomes a small blip at the corner of the screen. Dean takes over. The faded AC/DC shirt over jeans is familiar. He'd worn the same thing earlier that day, collecting signatures near City Hall. Not there was any reason to doubt Wayward67 was Dean Winchester. Just further confirmation.

"Well, hello, sexy," says Dean, his voice coming through deep and rough on the speakers. Speakers. Castiel should have realized. He sits forward, without leaning into the frame, and quickly selects his microphone to mute it.

_I apologize. My computer's microphone doesn't work._

Castiel types his response and then holds up his hands in a sheepish shrug.

"Weak," says Dean, ducking his head slightly as he chuckles. Castiel gets the quickest glimpse of his scruffy chin and smiling lips.

_I guess I’ll have to type out what I want you to do instead of telling you._

Dean’s quiet as he reads over the message then chuckles. “What you want me to do huh?”

_Yes._

"Well, I gotta admit, I was hoping to uh, get some confirmation then, that you're the guy in your pictures, but you look pretty good from here," says Dean. On the screen, Dean reaches out toward his own computer and makes some adjustments, the camera angle shifting slightly. "Real good."

_That is a fair request; I am happy to oblige._

"Who uses semicolons seriously, what the hell, man," says Dean. He chuckles and Castiel watches the subtle shifts in his shirt as his body moves underneath.

This Dean is so much different than the one he's met several times now. This Dean is quick to laugh, easily charming, flirting even. There's none of the usual hardness, the vicious sarcasm, or cutting looks. Even though Castiel can't see his face, he knows that Dean is smiling--possibly even blushing. He suddenly wants to see it more than anything.

Castiel begins to unbutton his white dress shirt, slowly, fingers lingering before popping the second button open and hovering over the third. He pauses, noting the way Dean leans forward slightly and goes completely silent.

_I assume I can show you one thing that would convince you of my identity?_

Castiel's fingers return to the next button, toying with it, rubbing it before popping it open. Then the next, hands moving slowly down his chest while keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

"Uh, I mean, I did stare at those pictures quite a bit, so I suppose that could work..." says Dean, his voice strangely tight in a way Castiel’s never heard before.

Castiel smirks where the camera doesn't show. He takes his time opening the fully unbuttoned shirt, and slowly shrugging out of it, revealing his tanned chest and stomach. He leans back slightly in his computer chair, elongating his torso to better showcase his physique without being hunched over.

Fingers start at Castiel's breastbone, just at the first dip beginning his abdominals, and slowly drags it way down the center of his stomach.

"Fuck yeah, you look really hot dude..."

Dean's hand flies to his thigh and he squeezes himself through his jeans on the screen where Castiel can see.

Sure fingers rub against the waistband of Castiel's navy slacks.

"You're a dirty tease, you know that?" says Dean.

It's awe-inspiring--the way Dean Winchester sounds breathy and tense. It's so unlike the way he usually sounds when talking to Castiel. Annoyed. Grumpy.

Using only one hand, Castiel pops the button on his slacks then pulls down the thin zipper. He monitors the small picture on the screen, notes the way his black boxer briefs slowly come into focus on the camera. He stands up from his seat, adjusting the laptop to follow him as he does. His stomach flexes and his dress slacks hang loosely on his hips.

"Fuck yeah, show me, baby..."

Castiel turns his entire body and pulls his slacks down just slightly. He can't see the camera anymore, but he hears the breathy exhale from Dean over the speakers.

"There is something so hot about a dude with a stencil above his ass..."

Castiel turns back around and sits back in the chair, adjusting the screen again to ensure his bare chest is on screen and the top of his undone pants bunching around his lap.

_This is good enough for identification, yes?_

A heavy silence, then an exhaled laugh. "Oh, that's dirty, you are a tease, you are the worst kind of tease..."

_What did you think I was going to show?_

The lower half of Castiel's head dips slightly into view for a brief moment as he laughs at Dean's growing annoyance.

"You know damn well what I thought you were going to show, whip your dick out..."

_How can you really identify me based on my cock, alone? You admitted you received plenty of dick pics from this dating app._

"Sure, but I didn't like, jerk off staring at all of those..."

It's as though the words were dropped into his lap with the weight of a kettlebell. Castiel's groin aches. His cock was already half there from listening to Dean's pleas, but the confession made in such a sincere tone.

_Take off your shirt._

"After you just teased me, you're gonna start barking commands? Not sure that's how this works, man," says Dean, his smirk just visible in the top of the screen. He makes an exaggerated show of raising his arms in a stretch, his shirt rising up just enough to show a tantalizing sliver of skin around his middle. "Maybe you should try asking nicer?"

_Now._

"Ooh," says Dean, an aborted laugh on his side of the screen, "bossy, I like that."

Of course, he does. Castiel isn't surprised. He uses his hand to make a swishing motion, urging Dean to hurry up.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I can't make as good of a show as you did but," Dean's voice becomes muffled as he pulls his black shirt over his head, "can't hurt to catch up with you over there."

Dean's chest is amazing. Tan skin and a toned musculature that broadcasts real strength rather than gym maintenance. Just enough softness over muscles to make Castiel’s hands itch to touch.

And then at the very edge of his jeans, he spots something frilly peeking out.

_Your jeans, too._

"Whoa whoa, hey," says Dean, chuckling under his breath, "you gonna go first again, or what?"

_No_ , types Castiel, sitting closer to the computer as he types, his chest taking up the entire picture, _I want you to take off your jeans, leave on those panties I see peeking over the waistband. I want to look at you. I want to see if you’re hard._

"You could just ask," says Dean, pointing the camera down. The focus blurs for a moment, and when it returns, sharper than ever, Castiel can clearly see where Dean's cock is hard against his leg and straining in his jeans.

A hand automatically flies to Castiel's crotch. He’s aching hard and dying for some kind of friction. He angles his own laptop’s built-in camera lower still. Once the frame is centered around his crotch, Castiel puts one hand down the front of his open slacks and briefs, groping himself in a very obvious up and down motion.

The whine that flows through the speakers is a noise Castiel wouldn’t have thought possible of Dean Winchester. It’s one he now needs to hear again.

Typing one-handed is difficult, but Castiel manages.

_Touch yourself. Show me._

“You always this pushy?” asks Dean, his hands on screen undoing his jeans without much flair then pulling them open and wiggling them down his hips slightly. The pair of panties revealed are striped red and black, and the bulge in the front barely contained by the flimsy material. Dean pulls the material impossibly tighter before dipping it down enough to show the head of his cock.

Castiel grabs himself and gives a firm squeeze. He’s seen Dean’s cock in the pictures he sent, but something about watching him breathe and talk and move. It was real. Dean looked even better live and his cock shone with the first drops of precome.

_You look delicious. If I were there, I would be on my knees in a heartbeat. I want to lick up everything leaking from your cock right now. Want to taste you._

Dean’s hand went from idly holding his cock in view to stroking immediately. Castiel’s eyes followed every movement, the flick of his wrist, the twisting movement, the way he would push down into the base, his other hand coming around to push where his balls were still mostly crammed inside of the panties.

A soft moan translates over the speakers, spiking Castiel’s need.

Castiel reached into his briefs and pulled out his hard cock, taking time to pull his balls free as well, laying on the outside of his scrunched up briefs. He runs his fingers lightly along the swollen flesh, enjoying the way Dean’s movements remained tight and firm as he watches.

“Fuck,” curses Dean, pausing his movements for a moment before he resumes. “It’s been so long since I’ve watched another guy get off in person.”

_If you wanted to watch me, I would let you. But I would make you sit on your knees in front of me, staring up while I do it. And when I do come, I’m going to paint your chest and make you taste it while it drips down._

Dean whines—he fucking whines like an animal, his wrist moving so quickly it’s a blur on the camera, the connection causing the image to stutter and break. “I want that, you can come anywhere on me, I love it.”

_Come weighing down your lashes? Staining your lips?_

“How are you still typing sentences,” says Dean, breaking into a moan. The video continues to stutter as he strips his cock, standing in front of the camera. The bad connection makes it impossible to catch the moment when Dean releases all over his stomach. Muscles clench and pearly ropes cling and drip across freckled skin.

_You look so sexy when you come. Don’t move, I want to admire you while I come._

“You…kinky…bastard,” Dean pants and moans, his hand gleaming with excess come. He remains on screen panting and watching while his own come drips forgotten down his abs.

“You really going hard there,” says Dean, running his fingers down his chest, toying with the edges of his mess.

Castiel lowers his head enough to show his chin and an obvious nodding motion.

“Yeah you like it,” says Dean, the smirk off camera evident in his tone. He purposely pushes his fingers into his dripping come. “Wanna taste this?”

The answer is a gut punch of air leaving Castiel’s body. He comes with a strangled cry Dean can't hear. The image of Dean standing in stained panties will likely haunt his every waking thought for the next week.

“Yeah, I’m going to go ahead and agree that we definitely need to meet,” says Dean, chuckling warmly to himself. He’s back in his chair and cleaning up with a box of tissues.

Castiel smiles as he wipes away the last bits of clinging spunk from between his fingers. He throws away the Kleenex and returns to the keys.

_I look forward to meeting with you, face to face. But I’m afraid that day must be delayed slightly. I am currently in the middle of a project that needs more time—extra tweaking._

“Uh, yeah, then, whatever, we can chat and you just, tell me when you’re ready?” asks Dean, sounding suddenly less confident than he had even while naked and jerking it on camera.

_I look forward to seeing you again, soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the smut! Next, Dean leads Castiel on a **real** ghost hunt!


	8. Ghost Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, Dean, and Cas go on a ghost hunt together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those of your following along, I very much appreciate the feedback, I enjoy posting this story

It's early, but still dark and chilly when Castiel arrives at the Winchester house.

"Oh, Mr. Novak, good evening," says Sam, opening the door wearing several layers of clothing. "Did you bring any equipment?"

"Please, call me Castiel," he says, stepping into the house while Sam holds the door open. "Dean had not specified that I should bring anything, my apologies."

"Oh, that's okay," says Sam, walking to the counter and picking up a metal flashlight, "you can borrow a flashlight, and if you have a phone, the camera on there is as good as any other."

"Thank you," says Castiel, smiling, "you're joining us for the hunt?" He keeps the disappointment out of his voice.

"Sure, it's been a while since I've tagged along with Dean on one of these things," says Sam, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Always good to have a few extra hands in these situations."

Loud steps on the stairs announce Dean before he appears. "Sammy's coming along, that way we can split up, cover the most ground, and bail the other out if something goes wrong."

Dean appears in the stairway wearing layered shirts, black cotton and plaid, beneath his usual brown leather jacket. His hair looks damp and his cheeks pink, as though freshly showered. It brings back pleasant memories from the night before.

"You often experience ghost trouble on these hunts, enough that you need to be bailed out?" asks Castiel.

"Bailed out of, uh, jail," says Sam, clearing his throat. "We, um, don't exactly always have permission to skulk around these properties at night on ghost hunts."

"It's been a while since we've had any legal trouble," says Dean, shrugging as he walks behind the bar and begins pulling out his own equipment. "Besides, that ain't the worst kinda trouble you can get into on these hunts."

"Ghosts?" asks Castiel, looking between the brothers. Sam looks bored at the mention of the supernatural, but Dean's face lights up with a mysterious quality.

"Vengeful spirits, poltergeists, demonic forces, you never know what's going to pop up," says Dean, shoving a flashlight, a camera, and the EMF detector from the night of the ghost tour into his pockets. "Best be prepared for anything."

"C'mon, Dean," says Sam, chuckling. "Quit trying to scare the rookie."

"You're not scared, are ya, Cas?" asks Dean, walking around the bar to stand uncomfortably close to Castiel.

"I look forward to a good hunt," says Castiel. Any excuse to spend more time getting to know Dean in his own environment.

"Nice enthusiasm," says Dean, smirking. "Hope you can keep it up when we get there because I'm taking you to the most haunted place in town."

* * *

"This looks like a good place to start," says Dean, pushing the window open further. He has to jump up to grab the ledge, and grunts as he hauls himself up. It's the back side of the building next to a deserted parking lot for employees. The window accesses the dark lower basement level of the old building.

"Be careful, it might be a long drop," says Sam.

"Don't worry, I've got great balance, I'm like a cat..."

...the last words before Dean falls through the window and lands with an  _umph_.

"Dean?" asks Sam. Dean can see him above, framed by the evening street lamps from the parking lot.

"...like a cat," says Dean, voice strained.

Dean waits while Sam crawls through carefully and they both assist Castiel with stepping down into the basement level of the old hotel. All three take out flashlights and begin shining them around the empty storage area.

"Very dark," says Sam, pulling out his flashlight. Dean already has his camera out and hands the EMF detector to Sam. He then begins taking digital snapshots of the yawning darkness before them.

"Alright, Cas, be on the lookout for any cold spots, anything touching you, any sounds, or voices, and if you smell anything like sulfur," says Dean.

"I do not detect anything," says Castiel, in the dark.

"Just, keep an eye out," says Sam. He starts to walk deeper into the room, and the others follow.

The empty storage room opens up into a large basement full of discarded hotel furniture, most only dating back to the seventies at the oldest. A few outdated computer bricks collect dust next to a pile of rolled-up carpets.

"This doesn't really scream 'civil war' to me," says Sam.

"The guy who used to work here that I knew, he always had a bad feeling about the basement, and one day he swore he saw a person, but he couldn't find anyone. No one ever came out, and he locked the door behind him."

"Well, we just entered through a window," says Castiel, "It's also highly possible it was human error."

"Human error?" asks Dean, wheeling around on Castiel, holding the camera in his face.

"Yes, human beings are incredibly unreliable when it comes to eyewitness accounts," says Castiel "It's possible that person only saw a trick of their mind, or made it up, or maybe he was on illicit drugs, or..."

Dean chuckles as soon as the word  _illicit_  leaves Castiel's mouth.

"What?" asks Castiel.

"Nothing, just that word...well, nevermind," says Dean. Thoughts of illicit conversations with Thursday caused him to lose his train of thought for a moment.

"Okay, would you two shut up? You're going to get the cops called on us before we get anywhere," says Sam. He holds up a hand, causing all three to halt at a long corridor. "Split up?"

"Split up," says Dean, sighing as they both glance over at Castiel.

"What?" asks Castiel.

Dean and Sam lock eyes, then put out their hands. One, two, three...

Sam cackles as he holds out a fist: rock. He effectively squashes Dean's scissor fingers.

"Alright, Cas, you're with me, let's go," says Dean, taking off down the corridor to the right.

A biting breeze drifts in from sources unknown, causing the short hairs on the back of Dean's neck to rise. Somewhere in the distance, the red glow of an emergency exit sign is the only source of light outside Castiel's flashlight beam. A beam that continues to flip back and forth between different features at a dizzying pace.

"Cas, can you hold the light more steady? Gonna give me epilepsy here, man," says Dean, pausing to look back where Castiel stands in the darkness.

"Sorry," says Castiel, pointing the flashlight directly into Dean's face, causing him to flinch.

"Okay, not at my eyes, either," says Dean, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sorry," says Castiel. It takes several moments of blinking before the shifting spots vanish completely and Dean can once again see in the dark.

"Look, just, keep that thing aimed at the ground where we're going, and stick close to me," says Dean.

"Of course," says Castiel.

Dean takes a few slow steps, holding up the camera. He clicks a few snapshots before he notices an approaching doorway. He pauses and immediately is pushed forward from behind. "Cas?" asks Dean, the warmth still crushing against him from behind.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Not...that close?"

"Of course," says Castiel, fabric shifting as he takes a small step back out of Dean's personal space.

Dean sighs as he approaches the door and pulls on the door handle. The door rattles but remains closed. "Locked," he mutters. Dean begins to pat down his jacket until he finds the small kit always there containing his lockpicking set. "Hold the light steady."

Castiel points the flashlight directly at the door handle as Dean kneels down and inserts the metal tool into the keyhole. He bites his lip as he concentrates on moving the pins and weights, looking for any give. Light directly in his eyes causes him to flinch and lose his place.

"C'mon, man, what the hell!"

"Sorry, I uh, thought I saw something," says Castiel.

"Where?" asks Dean, head whipping around.

"I believe it was only dust," says Castiel, shrugging with the flashlight in his hands.

"You're really bad at this," mutters Dean, going back to his chore. It takes a few moments before the lock makes a telling  _click_ and the door is opened.

"How did you learn how to pick locks like that?" asks Castiel, sticking close to Dean as they walk into the room.

"Dad," says Dean, holding up his camcorder as they venture into the room. The floors are peeling laminate, and the corners are filled with desks and chairs pushed into stacks. "Sometimes people are protective of their secrets, or afraid of anyone pointing a flashlight at them."

"So you father taught you breaking and entering?"

"S'not like we're stealing anything other than pictures and experiences," says Dean, pausing to glance back at Castiel. "We ain't criminal, we're searching for proof of life after death, it's a noble undertaking that benefits all of mankind."

A soft  _clicking_ sound in the corner causes Dean to stop short and turn his head.

"What was..."

"SHHH," Dean cuts off Castiel with a harsh whisper, then edges quietly toward the corner of the room with all of the furniture.

The room goes quiet. Dean holds his breath as he creeps slowly closer. The only noise he can hear is the rushing of his own blood in his ears as he wills even his heart to stop so that he can listen.

Is this room over where they buried the dead soldiers? Is this where some depraved murderer hid his prey? Were the dead trying to tell him something important about this small, locked room in the basement of an ancient building?

Dean holds the camera into the dark corner, switching on the night vision mode. He waits as the device focuses on different objects: some close tables, distant molding around the bottom of the wall, a pair of vivid white, glowing eyes in the darkness...

The gasp is so loud, Castiel drops his flashlight with a  _crack_ causing Dean to bump against a chair teetering near the edge of a desk. The resulting domino effect of chairs crashing down causes dust to permeate the air until Castiel and Dean are both coughing and lunging toward the exit.

Back in the hallway, Dean bends at the waist, hands on his knees, as he struggles to stop coughing. Castiel's body presses close to him as he breathes heavily.

"W-what was that?"

"Jesus, Cas," says Dean, between spluttering coughs.

"I saw something, glowing on your screen, and..."

"It was a goddamn rodent, Cas, just a mouse or some shit, you don't need to..."

"You guys alright?" Sam's voice causes Castiel and Dean to jump anew.

"Fuck, Sam," says Dean, holding his hand over his heart. "My blood pressure can't take more of this shit, you take Scrappy Doo here, I can't handle him."

Dean walks in the opposite direction from where he and Castiel had been previously headed, shaking his head and muttering as he goes.

* * *

Sam walks much more relaxed than Dean. He hums softly to himself as they walk through the different rooms, most unlocked and empty. He shines his flashlight around, snaps a few pictures, and continues on his way.

They enter one room and Castiel pauses when he hears something muffled. He freezes like a hound with a scent. "Wait..."

"You okay?" asks Sam, turning his flashlight on Castiel's face, causing him to flinch and squint. "Ack, sorry."

"I thought I heard something," says Castiel, still blinking away the black spots.

"What did I sound like?"

"I don't know," says Castiel, before holding up a finger and shushing softly. Sam goes quiet, and the pair shines their flashlights slowly around the perimeter of the empty storage room. The area is silent, except for their breathing and movements.

"Could have been another rodent? A draft?"

"Wait, there," says Castiel, raising his nose up, "do you smell something? It kind of smells like sulfur, and..."

Sam bursts out laughing but recovers quickly. He motions for Castiel to follow him out of the room.

"Hey, my bad, I uh, breaking and entering always gives me a nervous stomach."

Castiel shines his flashlight up onto his own face to show his unamused scowl. It only serves to send Sam laughing anew.

"Man, quit making me laugh, Dean'll hear and come over here and get all pissy," says Sam.

"You don't take this quite as seriously as Dean," says Castiel, following Sam back out into the hallway and into another empty room.

"That's an understatement," says Sam, sighing. The flashlight illuminates billowing clouds of dust, but little else of interest. "Dean's a little fanatic about trying to prove ghosts exist."

"Do you believe in ghosts?" asks Castiel, watching Sam as he pushes forward into the dark.

"Uh, no," says Sam, giving a short laugh that almost sounds sad. "I wish I did, but I don't."

"How do you do these hunts, and tours, if you don't believe?" asks Castiel, stopping in his tracks.

"You don't have to believe in God to be able to learn the history of the Canterbury Cathedral and lead tour groups through it. You can still appreciate the history, architecture, the beauty, the showmanship..."

"Does Dean feel the same way?" asks Castiel.

"Oh please, you've seen him," says Sam, chuckling. "He believes, alright. Somedays I think it's good for him, that it helps him cope, but other days, I wish he would just give up on the ghost thing, and move on with his life. He can be a little obsessive."

"I noticed," says Castiel. "What do you mean, helps him cope?"

"Well, mom," says Sam, looking around through the dark hallway, but there are no signs of Dean's flashlight. "My mom died when I was an infant. I never knew her. But, that's what started it all—it was Mom. Dad wanted to make contact with her, and Dean followed him straight down that rabbit hole and never looked back. There's no doubt in my mind that Dean believes in it one-hundred-percent. In my opinion, that's the scariest part of these ghost tours."

"Hey!" A call echoes through the darkness. Sam and Castiel both turn around and shine their flashlights toward another light at the distant end of the hallway. "C'mere!"

Sam and Castiel move quickly and quietly down the hallway until they arrive next to Dean, holding a finger to his lips.

"This way," he whispers, and Castiel can hear his breathing—feel his warmth. Something has definitely spooked Dean. It's enough to make Castiel's own heart race. Castiel and Sam follow Dean until he stops at a doorway and points inside.

The room has a tiny window near the ceiling, nailed shut, and just enough light filtered through to illuminate a sheer curtain that hangs crooked across a broken rod. Dean points his flashlight.

Castiel sucks air loudly through his teeth.

The curtain is moving— _dancing_. The stuffy basement has nothing in terms of windows, but here is this one window, and the curtain is wafting in a nonexistent breeze.

"You guys seein' that?" asks Dean.

An identical 'uh huh' comes from Sam and Castiel.

"The window?" asks Sam.

"It's nailed shut, Sammy."

"A breeze from the corridor?" asks Castiel.

"You feel anything?" asks Dean.

All Castiel feels is a bead of sweat forming at the top of his neck and sliding down his back. Dean holds out the EMF reader and it immediately begins beeping and whirring. Sam pulls out his camera and clicks to record. He holds it in front of him as he takes cautious steps forward. Soon, he's within arms' length and gives a low chuckle.

"False alarm," says Sam, pointing the camera down to the ground. Dean and Castiel rush to his side and stare down where the camera points. An old-fashioned brass grate is fit into the ground. It's outdated air conditioning, but somehow it's still getting some air to this forgotten room. The air is only obvious once they're standing next to the curtain.

Castiel lets out a long exhale, and a soft chuckle. "I must admit, I was slightly nervous there."

"Whatever, the EMF was still going off," says Dean, muttering to himself. "This way..."

* * *

Dean walks back into the hallway, pointing the EMF reader around. He can't help the crushing defeat forming in his chest. He had felt so sure about that curtain when it had illuminated and started to dance.

Wrong again.

What could he hope to find now to convince Castiel of the Marshall House's haunted status?

"Have you spoken to many people with experiences about this place?" asks Castiel, his voice muffled by the stifling darkness.

"Sure, plenty of guests claim they hear things or see things when they stayed here," says Dean. "It's one of the most common places to see orbs in photographs."

"If the rest of the hotel is as dusty as the basement, I would bet most of them are just dust motes," says Castiel.

"Look, I know you don't believe, but you gotta go in with a semi-open mind, otherwise you'll never see anything, even if it's right there bouncing in front of your eyes."

"Wait," says Castiel, crouching down even though they're in pitch darkness. "Over there."

At the end of the dark corridor, a light appears. 

It starts at the ceiling, then slowly lowers and begins to move toward them, bouncing slightly left and right. Dean points the EMF detector, and Sam snaps away with his camera.

"What the hell," says Dean, aiming his EMF reader toward the approaching light.

"Hey, is someone down there?" asks a deep voice, echoing off the exposed concrete bricks.

"Shit, run," says Dean, turning one-eighty-degrees and sprinting away. Staccato steps and heavy gasping are the only sounds. Dean focuses on finding the window that led them down, ignoring everything else. It's only a short jog, but it seems to stretch into eternity.

Dean arrives back at the window with Sam, looking around, frantic. It's too high—even Sam can't reach it with his height.

"Here, help me," says Sam, grabbing a dusty old table. Sam pushes the table while Dean moves a few stray chairs to make room.

"You first, Sammy," says Dean, once the table's in place. They've both stowed their flashlights, but Dean squints into the darkness for any sign of Castiel. Sam pulls himself up and out of the window, while Dean pauses on top of the newly moved table.

"Did we lose Cas?" asks Sam, voice rising. "Oh, shit, what are we gonna do?"

"I don't know, but we gotta get the hell out of here, we don't need you practicing law from inside the slammer," says Dean, pulling himself clear of the window. He looks around and gestures toward a wrought iron fence. "Come on, we can call him, later. Maybe he's hiding."

There are cars in the back parking lot, and some people loitering, smoking cigarettes. Sam and Dean remain hidden, walking only when they know they won't be spotted. It's slow going, but they can't risk being seen before they reach the Impala.

"We gotta go back for Castiel," says Sam.

"Sometimes it's best to wait these things out rather than jump to conclusions, Cas is probably fine."

"What if that guy caught him?" asks Sam.

"Then he'll need us to bail him out, won't he?"

Dean and Sam jump over the wrought-iron fence and walk toward their car when Sam suddenly stops and pulls Dean against the fence by his shirt collar. A large, rectangular bush blocks them from the view of a doorway just opening on the side of the building.

"I apologize for the confusion, Mr. Novak, thank you for your understanding."

"And thank you, for your assistance," says Castiel.

"What tha..." Dean peers around the bush in time to see Castiel thanking a uniformed security guard. The two shake hands, and Cas turns to walk away, spotting Dean.

Dean and Sam still hang back until the guard disappears back into the Marshall House. Castiel walks over to their hiding space, his face neutral and calm.

"Is everything alright?" asks Castiel, looking back and forth between Dean and Sam. "Did I miss a spirit encounter?"

Dean glances at the dust smearing their shirts and jeans. "Aw, dammit," says Dean, sticking a finger through a new hold in his shirt, "this was my favorite shirt."

"Um, what happened down there...exactly?" asks Sam, eyes squinting as he frowns.

"Oh, I ran into a security guard, and explained who I was," says Castiel, gesturing back at the Marshall House. "He led me back upstairs, and gave me a quick tour of the lobby."

"But..."

"My company owns the building at this time," says Castiel, his eyebrows knitting together. "I'm allowed to explore it."

"Then...why the hell did you make us break in?!" asks Dean, rubbing his hip where he had bruised himself falling.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourselves," says Castiel "I did not want to disrupt your plans."

Sam covers his mouth to keep from laughing. Dean seethes.

"Son of a bitch," says Dean, grabbing his face. "Dammit, this doesn't count."

"Why not?" asks Castiel, frowning.

"Well, there's only so much we can do if we're avoiding getting a B and E on our records," says Dean, scoffing. "If you own the place, we can go there and set up shop, stay a night, bring more tools, shit, maybe bring a psychic."

"You know a psychic?" asks Castiel.

"Yeah, of course," says Dean. "A legit one, too."

"Hmm," says Castiel. He stares at the ground, tilting his head. He stares blankly long enough that Sam and Dean exchange worried glances before Castiel snaps out of it. "Alright. We should meet again. A psychic appointment sounds fun. Though, I must warn you, the first stage of construction is scheduled to begin tomorrow. Even if your psychic is convincing, the project will still be moving forward."

"Oh, I've already got plans for your little project, I've turned in my petition, and I've got other plans up my sleeves."

Sam shifts uncomfortably on his feet as Dean stares down Castiel like a lion watching a wounded wildebeest. "Uh, I'm supposed to pick Jess up for a late night Netflix date, so..."

Dean reaches into his pocket and throws the Impala keys at Sam. "Take the car, I'll get a ride with Daddy Warbucks over here." Dean looks at Castiel for confirmation. "That okay?"

"Of course," says Castiel.

"Take it easy, Cas," says Sam, waving with the keys in hand. He walks away, looking in all directions like he's guilty of some crime. Or afraid Dean will immediately realize his mistake and chase him down and tackle him, more like. Soon, Sam's around the corner and out of sight.

"I'll text my driver," says Castiel, pulling out his phone.

"Go ahead, but don't bother waiting for me," says Dean, pulling out his phone. "I can walk. I just knew Sam'd insist on driving me home if I told him."

"Well, I insist, let me give you a ride," says Castiel.

"No, thanks," says Dean, taking off down the sidewalk away from the Marshall House in the direction of his house.

"Then I'll walk with you," says Castiel.

"Pass," says Dean.

"I'm sorry the hunt didn't go as you had hoped tonight," says Castiel.

"Eh, ghost hunting isn't a science, it's just patience, an open mind, and a good dose of luck."

"You say that you've seen ghosts before," says Castiel.

"There's not much to  _see_ , but I've been in the presence of spirits, yes," says Dean. He continues walking without looking backward, but he doesn't make any further objections as Castiel follows behind.

"Can you tell me about it?" asks Castiel.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but it's kinda personal," says Dean, sighing. He pauses at a crosswalk, watching the sparse weeknight traffic. He huddles into his jacket against the night cold. "I hate telling non-believers, I can just feel the judgment. You have to listen to things like that with an open mind, so it's not something I like to discuss with just anyone."

"Fair enough," says Castiel. The light changes and Dean continues walking with Castiel close on his heels. "How are things going with your online friend?"

"Ah," says Dean. His back is to Castiel, but he's still nervous that Cas can see him smile. "Still chatting."

"You were finally able to meet him?" asks Castiel.

"Nah, we did the Skype thing, video chat, whatever," says Dean, snickering. "It was a good idea. Awesome, even. Although..." Dean grins and shakes his head. "Nevermind."

"What?" asks Castiel, a little too enthusiastically.

"Well, he said his mic was broken, and then he got on camera so I know it's him but, I mean, why no mic? It made me kinda suspicious. Why hide his voice, right?"

"Perhaps he has a terrible voice," says Castiel, shrugging in his trenchcoat. "Maybe it is very high, or possibly low and croaking, like a frog."

"C'mon, that's the least of my worries," says Dean, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm more thinking...what if he voice is recognizable."

Castiel stops walking and almost trips on his own feet. "R-recognizable? How do you mean?"

"What if he's a radio personality? Or an actor? I mean, they shoot some pretty big shows in Georgia these days, maybe this guy's someone big time and that's why he's being so secretive!"

"Ah," says Castiel, and his steps return to normal. "I know someone dating a celebrity?"

"Maybe," says Dean, smirking.

The thought had been crossing his mind more and more. Thursday claimed to have an important job and he wouldn't reveal his face or his voice. The face made more sense, it really was sketchy showing your face at the same time as your dick. Not that Dean would ever betray someone like that, but Thursday doesn't know that. But the voice had really gotten him thinking.

"Or perhaps his mic really is broken," says Castiel.

"Or he's just shy," says Dean, turning over his shoulder to grin at Castiel. "I mean, we were talking about some uh, private stuff."

"But you're no longer questioning his identity?"

"Well, he definitely has that tatt," says Dean, slowing his pace until they're walking, side by side, instead of Castiel trailing behind. "It's pretty frustrating, though, because it only makes me want to meet him even more."

"You can't meet?" asks Castiel.

"He's in the middle of an important project, he said," says Dean, shrugging. "Something that needs 'tweaking.'" Dean adds the air quotes.

"Tweaking?"

"That's what he said. Typed. Whatever."

"Tweaking? What does that even mean?" asks Castiel.

"Maybe he meant 'twerking' and it was a typo," says Dean, snickering to himself. "I'd believe this guy could be an exotic dancer type entertainer."

Dean grins over at Castiel but instead of laughing Castiel's face has turned a dark maroon red. What a prude.

"Maybe he's making excuses not to meet with you," says Castiel once his initial embarrassment wanes.

"Oh, please, I know he likes what he saw, so it's a mutual attraction," says Dean. "He's probably got a really good reason to not meet with me. Probably has a really important job or something."

"Or maybe he's agoraphobic," says Castiel.

"A-gore-uh-what?"

"Agoraphobic, he's afraid of being outside, he hasn't left his room in three years," says Castiel.

"He's got a hell of a nice tan for a shut-in," says Dean, laughing. "Nah, I don't think that's it."

"He's...suffering from terrible body odor, and knows you won't like it once you actually meet?"

"As sexy as this guy is, I could forgive just about any odors," says Dean, smirking when he catches Castiel's eye. "Just have to invest in some clothespins."

"I do believe you have it bad for this man you've never met," says Castiel.

"One thing I did think about though," says Dean, turning at the corner, "maybe he doesn't want to meet because he's not single."

"Oh, God, you think he's married?" asks Castiel.

"I don't' know, married, or maybe just in a relationship, I mean, all the good ones are," says Dean, leaning in to nudge his shoulder into Castiel's beside him.

It was an impulsive move--teasing Castiel. The more time they spend the less he hates him as a person, though still as a businessman they remain adversaries. Castiel's only response is a confused frown.

Dean's long strides eat up the distance between the corner and his home. Castiel stops outside the wrought-iron gate and stares up at the Winchester house.

"If he does turn out to be married, would that be a deal breaker?" asks Castiel.

"Oh yeah," says Dean, chuffing, "I ain't so hard up to need to steal partners away, and I'm extremely wary of anyone that will cheat to be with you. That usually means they'll cheat on you, and that's bad karma, man, all around."

"You have an interesting worldview, Dean Winchester."

"Goodnight, Castiel Novak, thanks for walking me home, I guess," says Dean, opening the gate, and pausing. "Oh, and I'll call you, about the seance."

"I look forward to it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next, Dean's protest doesn't go as planned and he ends up spending more time with Cas.


	9. Protest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean protests the construction at the Marshall House, and ends up sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you people reading along and commenting, you guys make me so happy to keep posting these chapters, I hope you are still enjoying the read!

The house always feels empty without Sam. The more nights he spends out late with Jess, the more Dean realizes this is his future. Alone. Sam might not end up with Jess—but he’ll be with someone, eventually.

Dean’s not so sure about himself.

Sam’s on his way to becoming a fancy lawyer. Dean has a GED and a business in danger of losing its home base Maybe it’s a sign that Dean should be focusing his attention elsewhere.

Dean stomps upstairs and pushes the mail off the counter. The tax letter surfaces, and he quickly shoves it back into the pile. No use getting depressed about that. Instead, Dean digs out a battered journal from under the mess and opens it.

John Winchester’s journal. All the haunted places in America that Dean, Sam, and their father had visited are detailed inside. The first quarter of the book reads like a family scrapbook. Dean remembers all of the locations, not from their entries, but from visiting them in person.

The remainder of the book lists out potential locations accompanied by information printed out, hand-drawn maps and pictures, pages of instructions, and sometimes clippings from newspapers and articles. All the places John had planned to visit, before the accident.

_You’re the man of the house now, and all my research falls to you,_ John’s voice echoes in Dean’s mind as he gingerly turns the pages, _Take care of Sammy._

Dean keeps his promises.

Even if his last ghost hunt was a failure, the Marshall House was scheduled for reconstruction, and their house was facing a tax lien. Sam was his one shining accomplishment.

And Dean should be celebrating his accomplishments, not lamenting his failures.

Closing the journal, Dean turns the lights off in the main room and gets ready for bed. The hunt was a disaster, probably only strengthening Castiel’s beliefs that ghosts and spirits were a figment of the imagination. And what’s with the guy not mentioning that he owns the building they’re breaking into? Or him offering to walk Dean home. And chatting up about his online relationship.

Speaking of which.

Dean pulls up the app and smiles when he sees a familiar name.

_Wayward67,_

_Is there anything more attractive than passionate people? People who throw themselves into their beliefs and their actions. There’s nothing more alluring to me than finding someone who feels strongly enough about something to take action instead of standing aside. Sometimes in my job, I find myself pitted against passionate people. I’m always secretly pulling for them, even when it’s not in my company’s best interest. Because these passionate people? They’re the real value in this world._

_I hope your evening was pleasurable. I think of you often._

_Sincerely,_

_Thursday00_

It’s a different kind of message. More introspective. Dean agrees with the sentiment. He smiles when he sees that Thursday is still online.

**Wayward67** : hey hot stuff, how’s ur tweaking goin

**Thursday00** : It makes me smile just to see your name on the screen. My project continues. I hope your day went well.

**Wayward67** : meh probably screwed myself over tonight

**Thursday00** : Do you want to open up Skype again?

**Wayward67** : not the fun kind of screwed myself. I had this thing tonight, really needed to prove a point to this guy, but it didn’t work out

**Thursday00** : If you put your passion into it, there’s no limit to what you can achieve.

**Wayward67** : maybe. not sure that applies here

**Thursday00** : I apologize, I’m not always the best at consoling people.

**Wayward67** : yeah I guess it’s just all related, my company’s financial shit, and this meeting, I was passionate but, I’m starting to realize, it’s pointless

**Thursday00** : Why is your project pointless?

**Wayward67** : well, long story short, I’m being forced to sell my house. I’ll get some cash, but the thing is, I really didn’t wanna sell.

_You’re the man of the house now…_  John’s words are back. And, of course, Mom. Dean shakes his head and resumes typing.

**Wayward67** : I’m not giving up, but even if this project somehow goes exactly how I want it to go, I still gotta sell. And I kinda work out of my home so, it’s a business problem.

Dean releases a long exhale. Why does it feel so good? Opening up to what is almost a total stranger. A hot, sexy stranger—but still. He couldn’t talk to Sam about money, and Bobby had turned on him in a heartbeat.

**Thursday00** : I am sorry you are going through that.

**Wayward67** : gah sorry for the baggage just feels good to vent, and don’t worry I ain’t hopeless

**Thursday00** : I do not mind, at all. What are your hopes?

**Wayward67** : I’ve been writing a book if you can believe that. My texting skills don’t do me justice I swear

**Thursday00** : You’ve always come across as very intelligent, to me.

**Wayward67** : nah man that’s u with ur fancy grammar and punctuations and shit

**Thursday00** : I would want to read any book that you wrote. I hope I get the chance, one day.

**Wayward67** : after we meet ;) night sexy I had a late night so falling asleep

**Thursday00** : Sweet dreams.

* * *

Dean grips a wooden stake in one hand and shoves the other hand into his pocket. He glares up at the sky, a breath away from birthing a tremendous storm.

“I’m freezing my tits off,” says Ash, next to Dean, wearing a Budweiser T-shirt he’s obviously cut the sleeves off himself. Resting on his hips is his sign reading  **Go Home Angel**. “When is this supposed to happen?”

“The demolition is scheduled for nine o’clock, where is everybody?” asks Dean, frowning as a huge gust of wind catches his sign reading  **Save The Marshall House**  and threatens to push him into Ash.

“Maybe they stayed home, what on the fact that it’s definitely gonna rain soon,” says Ash.

“I always enjoy thunderstorms,” says Garth, standing tall and scrawny in a bright blue windbreaker and tan jeans. His sign declares  **Marshall House = Heritage**. “Reminds me of growing up out West.”

“So everyone wants to save the Marshall House unless it means getting caught in a little bit of rain? You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The first fat drops slam into the concrete around them.

“I’m here!”

Dean looks up and glares as Sam runs, clutching his sign over his head like an umbrella.

“Sorry I’m late, I’m here now,” says Sam. His sign is over his head but Dean can read the **Save Our City’s Soul** even from the strange angle.

“This is a goddamn protest, Sam, you can’t be late to a protest!”

“Better late than never,” says Garth with a big grin that Dean answers with another glare.

“Sorry, I slept through my alarm, I was at Jess’ house, and…”

“What if they had started demolition on schedule?” asks Dean, as the rain begins to fall steadily. “You show up late to a demolition, it might have just been me sitting here in front of a pile of rubble!”

“Well, luckily, they’re behind,” says Sam, staring up at the sky and getting hit by a fat raindrop in the eye. “Ack, maybe the rain’ll delay things?”

“Yeah, it’s starting to mean it,” says Ash, staring up, sticking his tongue out for good measure. “I’m retreating back to the Roadhouse. You guys comin’?”

“I haven’t seen Miss Ellen in a while,” says Garth, grinning. “That sounds like a mighty good plan.”

“No, I ain’t movin’ til I know this building ain’t going nowhere,” says Dean. Ash shrugs and walks away, Garth in tow. Sam’s eyes following them, a wistful expression on his face. “You can go, too, Sammy.”

“Nah, I’m staying with you,” says Sam. He wraps his arms around himself as the rain begins to soak through his clothing. He’s wearing the same plaid shirt over gray undershirt and jeans he’d been wearing the previous day.

“Walk of shame,” says Dean, shivering slightly in the chilly shower.

“I meant to go home and change, but, like I said, running late,” says Sam. “Hey, over there.”

Dean follows Sam’s finger toward the Marshall House where the crew is walking away from the heavy machinery, and back toward their trucks. The engines turn over and everyone begins to drive away. Sam waves his sign and gets in front of one of the trucks.

“Hey! Excuse me! What time are you guys coming back?” asks Sam.

“Boss called it for the day, too many storms, you should get yourself to shelter, they’ve got a tornado watch next county over,” the worker shouts out the window, before driving away. Several other vehicles follow until there’s not a living soul on the construction site—save Sam and Dean.

“Hey, that’s a win,” says Sam, clapping his wet hands. “We should get out of here before we get oversaturate.”

“That’s what they’re waiting for,” says Dean, pushing his wet hair back away from his forehead, and glaring around the area. “This is some ploy, they’re gonna pretend to give up, then show up here in ten minutes.”

“No way,” says Sam, laughing uneasily, “that’s insane. C’mon, man, let’s go meet up with Ash and Garth, grab a beer.”

“You go,” says Dean, sniffing loudly, “I’ll call you when they show back up, expecting no more opposition.”

Lightning flashes somewhere in the clouds, followed shortly by thunder.

“Hey, whatever, you’re being crazy,” says Sam, shaking his long, wet hair. “I’m going inside. If you’re not right behind me, I’m coming out here to drag you in.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Dean mumbles under his breath as Sam lumbers away, soaking wet.

Not that Dean’s much better. The wind picks up, and the rain continues. Constant rivulets pour down his forehead, obstructing his view. He stares in all directions, expecting the trucks to show up. They’re waiting for his guard to go down. A wet tarp blows across the street, catching Dean’s eye until he hears a voice behind him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean snaps his head around and exhales wetly. Castiel holds the world’s largest umbrella, leaving himself perfectly dry underneath, wearing his usual trench coat over navy suit.

“I told you I had plans for this,” says Dean, giving a defiant look. It’s difficult, because the cold causes his teeth to chatter, and he has to fight to keep it from showing.

“I tried calling the number listed for you on your website after the crews reported some protestors,” says Castiel, frowning. “The demolition was canceled due to inclement weather. We’ll have to reschedule the crew next week, as this was the only day they were available this week.”

Dean reaches into his pocket and almost drops his phone due to numbness from the wet and cold. He sees the notification for seven missed calls.

“Castiel No-sack?”

“Uh, sorry, that was a, um, typo,” says Dean, quickly shoving his phone back into his pocket to prevent Castiel from reading over his shoulder. “You better not be playing some trick on me, Cas. I’ll never forgive you—and I can hold a grudge.”

“We should get inside,” says Castiel, smiling as he extends the umbrella. Dean begrudgingly moves closer, though he’s already soaked through and the umbrella does nothing to block the biting wind. Another lightning strike followed by much closer thunder.

“Fine,” says Dean, sighing.

“And you need to get out of those clothes,” says Castiel.

“Whoa, buy me a drink, first,” says Dean, chattering at his own joke.

“You’ll catch a cold,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, right, no way in hell I’m catching a cold.”

* * *

It was lucky there were no scheduled tours that Thursday because Dean came down with a monster cold. Sam stocks the pantry with soup, brings Dean his fluffiest blanket and places several boxes of tissues around before packing his bag.

Sam leaves Dean alone, retreating to the safety of Jess’ apartment, citing germs and the impossibility of leading any tours if they were both sick. Dean treats himself to an all-day Dr. Sexy marathon on Lifetime.

Dean is more blanket than man when someone knocks loudly on the door downstairs. He groans, pulling the blanket up over his face. The knocking continues. “Go away,” grumbles Dean. But the knocking comes again, followed by the sound of the door opening.

“Hey,” says Dean, his hoarse voice cracking, sending him into a spastic coughing fit. “We’re closed! Come back during business hours or call ahead...”

The sound of hard-soled shoes on the stairs precedes the appearance in the apartment doorway. Dean groans and covers his head again.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas, what the hell are you doing here,” says Dean, grabbing a tissue, and hurriedly scrubbing at his face.

“I hope you don’t mind--the door was open. Jess is an intern at my company and she let it slip that Sam said you had come down with a cold,” says Castiel, holding up a canvas grocery bag. “I brought supplies.”

“Sammy left me fully stocked, thanks for the concern,” says Dean, sniffing loudly.

“Well, I can help you by heating up something to eat?”

“Not hungry,” says Dean.

“You’ll feel better after some soup,” says Castiel, nodding. He lets himself into the dirty kitchen, and Dean stands up from under his blanket. He immediately dashes around the room to pick up as many dirty tissues as possible.

“I’m contagious,” says Dean, glaring back into the kitchen. Castiel’s back is to him as he rummages through the cupboards and comes out with a can of soup. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“I’ll take my chances,” says Castiel, humming to himself. “I have an impeccable immune system.”

“Of course you do,” mutters Dean, before coughing again. He resigns himself to the couch, wrapping the blankets back around himself. “I don’t need nursing. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Maybe,” says Castiel. He pauses and turns around with eyes narrowed. “I thought I recognized that theme song.”

Dean jumps to grab the remote and quickly punches the buttons. “It got stuck on that channel, by accident, must have bumped it when I heard you come in, I thought I was being robbed, dude.”

“ _Now, back to Naked Dating_ …” comes the announcement from the television.

Dean stares in horror as two people sit, having drinks, completely naked with the appropriate censor blurs.

“This is what you were watching?” asks Castiel, raising an eyebrow.

Which is worse? Naked Dating, or Dr. Sexy? There’s only a second to decide...

Dean sinks down lower on the couch. “Uh huh.”

“Does your online boyfriend know you are into naked dating?” asks Castiel.

“Shut up.”

“You going to try for another meeting by luring him in with your nudity?”

“Are you just here to make me more miserable?” asks Dean, turning the television off.

“No,” says Castiel, walking away from the stove where a pot sits over low heat. “I came over to entertain you, while you’re sick.”

“No thanks, just go away.”

“Are you sure?” asks Castiel, raising an eyebrow. “I brought Monopoly.”

Dean peeks his head up as Castiel walks to the bag and produces the classic board game.

“Huh,” says Dean, sitting up and clearing his throat, which results in more coughing. “You think because I didn’t graduate high school, I won't’ be a threat?”

“I didn’t say…”

“Because I am fucking great at Monopoly. Usually better with more players, though.”

“We’ll see about that.”

An hour later, Dean is full of soup, and Boardwalk and Park Place both have hotels built—but so far Castiel isn’t landing.

In a surprising turn of events, Dean doesn’t hate spending time with Castiel. It’s comfortable. Maybe all the time they’ve spent together has confused his brain. Because despite how nice it is to laugh and talk with Castiel, he’s still the enemy.

Dean glances down at his phone for the hundredth time. Still no messages from Thursday.

“Your boyfriend?” asks Castiel.

Dean shrugs and rolls the dice. He moves the silver car piece ahead five spaces and picks up a Chance card. “Go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go…”

“You get that card a lot,” says Castiel, chuckling to himself.

“We usually exchange messages through the day, but today, nothing,” says Dean, shrugging. “Could just be busy, I mean, I don’t know what the guy does, but his schedule seems pretty full. Guess I’m just nervous lately. If he still doesn’t want to meet, then, maybe it’s time to consider moving on.”

“You may want to wait a few days,” says Castiel, reaching for the tissue box and handing a fresh one to Dean.

Dean accepts a tissue and blows loudly into it. “Obviously,” is Dean’s nasal reply.

Castiel gives a small nod, grabbing the die and rubbing them between his hands. “But, you still like the guy?”

“Yeah, but if we can’t meet up then, maybe look at something, I dunno, closer to home…” Dean shrugs, pretending the statement doesn’t make him feel as though his lungs are constricting. He passes it off as another coughing fit.

“You…have other options, you’re considering…” Castiel’s voice sounds strangely tight.

Oh, shit. Does Cas think he’s flirting? Is he flirting? It’s harmless, isn’t it? Considering Castiel lives with Meg and all.

“Not really,” says Dean, sniffing again. He picks up his silver car and dumps it into the jail side of the square. He looks up and gives Castiel his best puppy dog eyes. “Bail me out?”

“Consider trading me Pacific Avenue?” asks Castiel.

“Go Fish,” says Dean, causing Castiel to laugh as he pauses with the die in his hands. He finally drops them with a heavy thud and begins to move his Scotty dog along the row until…

“I do hope you enjoy your stay here at Chateau Winchester, we have all the amenities you’d expect of a five-star hotel on Boardwalk, for the low-low price of…” Dean slaps his hand down across the remainder of Castiel’s colorful bills, “…everything you got.”

“Wait,” says Castiel, laughing as he attempts to pry Dean’s hand off of his money pile, “I have property I can mortgage, I can sell houses, I can…”

“Dude, I am beating you from jail right now, this is great…”

“Would you quit blocking me from the bank, let me liquidate some assets…”

“You’re just prolonging the inevitable, Cas,” says Dean, gripping Castiel’s hand, twining their fingers together, then pulling his hand close to himself. “Don’t fight it, just admit it…” Dean releases his hand, and swipes a handful of the highest bill denominations from Castiel’s pile, “I’m obviously the better real estate mogul of the two of us.”

“I went easy on you because you’re sick,” says Castiel, turning up his nose.

“Bullshit, you’re just a sore loser…”

“Well, you’re a bad winner.”

“No such thing,” says Dean, giving a smug smirk before Castiel’s withering glare leaves him in another coughing fit. “Too bad we weren’t playing for something more than Monopoly bragging rites.”

“You really think I would bet my business’ million dollar project on a game about winning Beauty Pageants and plastic hotels.”

“No, but maybe I could have gotten you out of that trench coat,” says Dean.

Castiel glances up, quickly, afraid he’d misheard. Dean meets his eyes with a dark look and waggles his eyebrows for good measure. Castiel’s mouth hangs open, and before he can formulate any kind of response, the apartment door opens.

Perhaps it’s too far. Even if Castiel is with Meg, some men take it very personally when men flirt with them. And why is Dean flirting with the enemy, anyway?

“Hey, they were out of Chicken and Stars, but I got you some Star Wars soup, the shapes all look pretty generic to me, but maybe if you squint or something…” Sam blunders into the room, two large brown paper grocery sacks obscuring his face. He stomps into the kitchen, without the aid of his eyes, and sets the bags down. He reaches into one of them and pulls out a can. “It says this one is a lightsaber but, I don’t know, looks more like a vibrator to me, and…”

Sam turns and drops the can back into the bag upon spotting Dean and Castiel on the couch beside the ruined Monopoly board. “Holy Shit, Mr. Novak.”

“Hello Sam,” says Castiel, standing up, a few colorful bills fluttering to the ground like confetti.

“What uh,” Sam has to pause to clear his throat, his face obviously boiling hot, “…whatcha, um, whatcha doin’ here?”

“Cas came by to challenge my real estate mogul skills,” says Dean, giving a smirk and a wink. “Don’t worry, I embarrassed him.”

“I came by to make sure your brother was well since I had warned him he would catch cold after his protest was rained out,” says Castiel, pulling his coat tighter around himself. “It seems the common cold is no match for your brother’s obnoxious attitude.”

“That’s a compliment, thanks,” says Dean.

“Do you wanna stick around, I’m going to heat up some more soup, and maybe watch a movie?” asks Sam.

“Thank you for the offer, but I need to get back to my condo,” says Castiel. “I hope you continue to feel better, Dean.”

“Yeah uh, thanks…Cas,” says Dean, standing up and bringing a large, plaid blanket with him, wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl. “I’ll walk you out.”

“There’s no need.”

“I’ve been on my ass for hours, lemme do this,” says Dean, pushing into Castiel’s shoulder with his own and jerking his chin toward the stairs. “Be right back, Sammy.”

Castiel leads the way down the stairs, into the dark room that acts as the main area for their tour groups but sits empty during the days. Dean manages to make it all the way to the front door without coughing and opens the still unlocked door.

“It was nice spending time with you, Dean.”

“Yeah, sure, same,” says Dean, shrugging in his blanket. “I just hope I can beat you in the real-life game of Monopoly we got going on.”

“Dean, I’ve been thinking about that,” says Castiel, pausing in the doorway. “Maybe there is a way we can keep huge parts of the Marshall House. We could save the pieces, have them moved to a different location. You could continue your tours there. Could this be a compromise?”

“Why would you offer that?” asks Dean, meeting Castiel’s eyes with disbelief. “Your family would be okay with that?”

“No,” says Castiel, frowning. “No, they wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t mind purchasing a location and moving the pieces there, at my own expense. If it meant you would support the project.”

Dean’s eyes cloud for a moment. “I appreciate the offer, Cas, but I don’t think that’s gonna be enough. I’ll have to ask Pam when we go visit on Saturday night.”

Dean makes to close the door, and Castiel takes a small step out of the doorway, dejection plain on his face.

“I’ll see you at the psychic reading,” says Dean.

“Of course,” says Castiel.

* * *

“So, Castiel Novak,” says Sam, upon Dean’s arrival back up the stairs in their apartment.

“Yep,” says Dean.

“You wanna explain what that was all about?”

“Not really,” says Dean, dropping heavily back onto the couch and pulling the blanket back over his body.

“Castiel Novak, your arch nemesis, a man you claim to hate, and yet you’ve been spending more time with him than with your online girlfriend.”

_Girlfriend_. Dean should correct him, but he doesn’t.

“We haven’t even met yet,” says Dean, mumbling under his breath.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should forget that chick, and focus on someone a little more here, a little more available…”

“Wait, are you...you mean Castiel?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with it? You’re bisexual.”

“Sure, but you think Castiel is available?” asks Dean, scoffing as he grabs for a fresh tissue. “Hardly. You met Meg the night of the tour. She lives with him. She told me she’s single, but I have no idea what to make of them.”

“I guess I didn’t think much about it,” says Sam, starting the stove and preparing the condensed soup. “He’s definitely not married, but Meg did seem like more than a friend, and she told me she’s not his assistant…”

Dean can’t see Sam’s face, but he can clearly imagine that confused puppy thing he gets going on when he’s thinking.

“I asked her about it, at the tour, and she said she was his beard,” says Dean, blowing his nose loudly into the tissue. “Ugh, whatever the fuck that means.”

“His beard? Dean, are you sure that’s what she said?” asks Sam. Dean turns around on the couch and catches Sam’s wide eyes.

“Yeah, I think so, why? The guy doesn’t have a beard, she certainly doesn’t have a beard, I have no idea what to…”

“Dean, a beard is a term, when someone is putting up a fake relationship to hide the fact that they are not…heteronormative?”

“Hetero-what now?” asks Dean.

“Well, homosexual men used to have ‘wives,’” says Sam, pulling out the air quotes. “These ‘wives’ knew that their ‘husbands’ were homosexual, but they kept up the facade to allow the men to live without persecution because of their sexuality.”

“So a beard means Meg is pretending to be with Castiel to hide the fact that he’s gay?” asks Dean.

“I wouldn’t just assume that he’s gay,” says Sam, turning back toward the stove. “He could be bisexual, like you, or maybe he’s pansexual, or asexual, or anything other than, ya know, heteronormative.”

“Then it’s possible that Castiel…likes men.”

Sam’s shrug is audible. “I mean, possibility, especially if she’s telling the truth about being his beard, yeah.”

Since the day Castiel intersected him, by chance, at the Moon River Brewery, Castiel has known that Dean dates men. Also since that day, Dean and Castiel have spent a considerable amount of time together. And it’s possible Castiel also dates men.

Those looks. Walking him home. Coming over to take care of him when he has a cold. Offering to move the Marshall House somewhere else?

Holy shit. Was Castiel interested in him?

But then again, Castiel and his family want Dean’s movement to be squelched without any more negative publicity. Castiel had gone through extreme measures to ensure that Dean went to his company’s presentation. And he did claim he wanted to see proof, while also dismissing every paranormal clue on their outings together.

The entire thing made Dean nervous. And he hates feeling nervous.

“He offered to move the Marshall House,” says Dean.

“He, wait, what?” asks Sam, a spoon clanks against the pot as he stirs. “How?”

“I don’t know, I told him it doesn’t work that way,” says Dean, sighing as he sinks down deeper into the old couch. “It won’t matter.”

“You’re fighting all this, you got me, you got Jess working on this project, and you’re saying it won’t matter?” asks Sam.

“Look, I didn’t want to have to burden you but, I feel you should probably know, alright? The taxes? They’ve gone up. Considerably. And the payments from the book royalties? They’re down—hell, they’re almost nonexistent. And it’s put us in a really tough spot.”

“You need help with cash, Dean, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because it’s not your problem, Sammy,” says Dean, craning his neck around. “It’s not your problem, okay? It’s mine. And I’m going to handle it.”

“The Marshall House, all this, you thought, what, it would help with the taxes?”

“I thought if Angel Construction met enough resistance, they’d fuck off, and leave us alone, then maybe the huge increases would level out,” says Dean, sighing. “But it looks like they’re here to stay. And even if Cas moves the house somewhere else, it won’t save those spirits, and it won’t save our house value.”

“Do you want to consider…moving?” asks Sam.

Silence follows, broken only by the soft clink of the spoon stirring the soup.

“Hell no, you know we can’t leave this house,” says Dean, sighing. “I made a promise to dad—to you. I’m not going to abandon this house, not without a fight. So I’m telling you now because there’s no reason for you to worry, okay? Because I got a plan. I’m gonna finish the book.”

“The…you’re going to finish the book, before June? The book that you’ve been working on for the last six years since dad died?”

“Yeah, that book,” says Dean.

“Dean, that’s insanity, you won’t be able to…”

“I can take out a loan,” says Dean, shrugging in his blanket. “I’ll take out a loan, finish the book, make enough to pay it off, and then the increased sales revenue will keep us in this house long enough to figure out…something else, I don’t know. I can work day shifts at Bobby’s to make ends meet…”

“I could get a job,” says Sam.

“Fuck that, you’re a student, you don’t need to be putting your time into anything that isn’t school work or some kinda lawyer internship, you hear me? This is serious, you’re going to make a damn fine lawyer, you’re going to really help people, that’s what we’ve been working toward all this time…”

“We should sell.”

“What kinda quitter talk is this…”

“We should sell this house, and move somewhere better,” says Sam. He pulls out two bowls and pulls the soup off of the heat. “Yeah, you know, there are lots of old houses outside of the historical district, maybe they’re haunted, too? We could set up shop, there? Or get a small shop front, not like we need a big house just to have people meet up to catch a bus.”

“They might be haunted, what the hell are you talking about?” asks Dean, turning around to glare. “Even if they’re haunted, they’re not haunted by our mother.”

“You don’t know that this place is haunted…”

“I do,” says Dean, his voice deadly serious. “I know it’s haunted. You know it. Dad knew it. There is a spirit in this house, and all signs point to mom. We’re not moving.”

“What if it’s not mom?” asks Sam. It’s so quiet, Dean doubts he even heard correctly.

“Come again?”

“What if it’s not mom? Would that change your mind about all these, schemes, plans and desperate money grabs?”

“It’s a moot point, Sam, this is where mom was…this is where mom passed, and she’s still here. She’s watching over us. Dad knew it, I know it, and you used to know it, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” says Sam, bringing two full bowls to the table and setting them down. “I was really young. Sometimes, I felt like I was playing along, not really believing, the things that happened…”

“You were just a kid, but trust me, when you were little, there was all sorts of supernatural activity around this place,” says Dean. He makes his way to the table, shuffling along with his blanket shawl. “Her jewelry moving, pictures facing down—only pictures of Mom? How do you explain all the flickering lights or the night she spoke to me…”

“You were a scared teenager, dad died and you were alone to raise me, and maybe you didn’t really see mom, maybe it was something else…”

“I heard mom,” says Dean, sitting down and picking up his spoon. “I heard mom, and she told me to take care of you. Just like Dad used to say.  _Take care of Sammy_ , she said. And I promised I would.”

“Well, she didn’t say, ‘keep the house no matter what,’ so maybe she would understand?”

“This conversation is over, man,” says Dean, stirring his supposedly Star Wars shaped noodles around the bowl. “I’m not losing this house. You don’t believe me, now, but I will make sure it happens. Don’t lose faith, man.”

“I never lose faith in you, Dean,” says Sam, pulling up a spoonful of steaming broth to blow on. “We always find a way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Dean and Castiel pay a visit to Pam and afterwards Dean and Thursday reconnect online. (it's dirty)


	10. Psychic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Psychic reading.

It’s dark when Dean arrives at Pamela’s place. A rundown little house nestled between two touristy boutiques. He’d volunteered to stay behind and close up after the last tour on Saturday. It's lucky Pam is a personal friend—willing to meet after business hours.

Sam and Jess chatter away inside, laughing together. The decor is cozy with mystical elements thrown in from the constellation pattern on the furniture fabric to the fanciful artworks on the walls. Castiel stands to one side, still wearing a suit and coat from work.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” says Dean, glancing around the room.

“You sound much better,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, the cold is mostly gone,” says Dean, shrugging. “You guys waiting on me?”

“Pam hasn’t appeared yet, either,” says Sam.

“Because I was waiting for the last member of the party to arrive,” says Pamela, opening the door in a side room and approaching the group. She wears leather pants and a lipstick red crop top. “Hello, boys and girls.”

“Pam,” says Dean, taking a step forward and hugging Pam. “I told my friends here all about you, so feel free to show off a little.”

“Perfect,” says Pamela, smirking as she pulls out of the hug. “Now, I’ve got an engagement after this, so if you don’t mind, let’s get started? I wanna talk to Sam and Jess, first.”

“Uh, sure, yeah, that’s the important thing that brought us in,” says Dean, frowning.

Sam meets his eye and the two share an in sync shrug. Pamela pats Dean’s cheek affectionately.

“I knew you’d be fine with it,” says Pamela.

“Told ‘ya she was psychic,” says Dean.

Sam leads Jess into the side room, a nervous grin on his face. Not like it’s Sam’s first time. Pamela prefers to work with smaller groups. The door shuts quietly behind them.

Dean shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on a coat hook near the entrance. He stares over at Castiel, still wearing that trenchcoat. For not the first time, he wonders what Castiel looks like underneath all those layers. Even if he’s fit, he likely couldn’t hold a candle to Thursday. The man looks ridiculously good naked. Dean longs to see him again, soon.

“Sorry to make you wait, hope you didn’t rush straight from some important meeting,” says Dean, leaning back against the wall. “I guess, ladies first, or whatever.”

“It’s alright,” says Castiel, a wry grin on his face. “It was worth it to see the look on my brothers’ faces when I told them I had to leave for a psychic reading.”

“Oh, shit,” says Dean, laughing. “That couldn’t have gone over well, isn’t your company super Christian?”

“My Father is, yes,” says Castiel, grinning. “But it’s fine. I was glad to get out of that meeting. Apparently, the weather delaying my project is somehow my fault.”

“I shoulda’ known that rain was you,” says Dean, grinning.

“I must be honest,” says Castiel, looking around the sparse greeting area. “My expectations here tonight are extremely low.”

“Look, don’t talk like that the second you walk inside,” says Dean, shaking his head. “At least give her a chance, Pam, she’s…she’s real.”

“These so-called ‘psychics’ are merely good at reading people and soliciting information. They appear to know things about people, simply by using deductive reasoning. It’s a parlor trick, not a magical gift. I dare say your own experiences are biased by the fact that you are acquainted with the psychic in question.”

“Just wait,” says Dean, smirking. “Try to ask her something you think she couldn’t possibly fake.”

“What are you going to be asking her about?” asks Castiel, taking a step closer to Dean in the tight entrance area.

“That’s private,” says Dean, grinning, “but if you must know, I’ll be asking about the Marshall House, and what’s going to happen with my business.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up and his usually squinted eyes go wide.

“Is that a problem?” asks Dean.

Surely Castiel isn’t still uncomfortable about their ongoing feud, they both seem to have a tertiary friendship despite the issues.

“Nothing is wrong,” says Castiel, shaking his head and schooling his facial feature back into a neutral look. “I had assumed you would be asking about your relationship.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Dean, cheeks heating up. He’d been thinking about Thursday naked minutes before.

“Everything still going well?” asks Castiel.

“Sure, yeah,” says Dean. “I guess there’s just no rush to meet right now. Not when I’m so busy with this shit and spending more of my time with…others.”

Actually, every night that Dean wasn’t leading a ghost tour for his normal job, Dean seemed to be spending time with Castiel. Like tonight.

“I enjoy the time we spend together,” says Castiel.

And Dean does too. But he doesn’t really want to say it out loud, so instead, he shrugs.

“Still, couldn’t hurt to ask this woman about him,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” says Dean.

The door opens after only a handful of minutes, and Jess and Sam emerge, red-cheeked and wide-eyed.

“So, uhh, we’re gonna get out of here,” says Sam, putting one arm around Jess’ waist. “I’m staying with Jess tonight, don’t wait up.”

They leave so quickly Dean finds himself staring at the closed door in their wake. “What the…”

“Your turn, sugar lumps,” says Pamela from inside the room.

“I believe she is speaking to you,” says Castiel, holding out a hand to allow Dean to enter the room first.

“No, I was talking about you,  _Castiel_ ,” says Pamela still hidden in the room.

Castiel walks through the door first, frowning. Pamela stands easily behind a circular table with a smirk on her face. “Nice to meet you, big boy.”

Dean edges his own way into the room, taking one of the chairs opposite Pam on the roundtable. There is a midnight blue tablecloth with silver fringe covering the tabletop, and the familiar deck of tarot cards sits carefully arranged.

“You aren’t expecting much tonight,” says Pamela, still smirking at Castiel as she takes her seat behind the cards. “Never had a tarot reading, I take it?”

“No,” says Castiel, settling into his own chair, leaning slightly forward as he squints down at the fancy design on the back of the cards. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in this type of thing.”

“Oh, gorgeous, you brought me a skeptic,” says Pamela, shifting her sharp eyes to Dean, but she’s smiling. “I love a challenge.”

Pamela holds the cards loosely in her hand before spreading them out. She then begins to gently move her hands over the cards causing them to shuffle around randomly. The movement creates a gentle  _clacking_ noise as the cards dance across one another.

“You have to handle them a certain way?” asks Castiel, leaning forward and squinting at the haphazard mess of cards on the table.

“The cards aren’t a science, everyone has their own little quirks,” says Pamela, smiling as one particular card goes careening away from the pile. She pulls that card to the side and continues shuffling the rest of the deck. “Got something specific on your mind?”

The question is directed at Castiel, but he doesn’t seem to hear. Dean shifts in his chair to gently bump his shoulder into Castiel’s. “Hey, man, you don’t gotta have a question.”

“Yeah, I’m very flexible,” says Pamela, winking at Castiel across the table. “Though I’m definitely not your type.”

Castiel’s cheeks go pink in the dim lit room. Dean remembers about what Sam had said about the beards. Maybe Castiel really does prefer men.

Pamela pulls all the cards back in, together, and then spreads them in a single line in front of herself. “Why don’t you pick five cards, sugar?”

Castiel reaches forward without hesitating and picks five cards at random from the lineup. Pamela pulls them aside, adding in the escapee from earlier, and then lifts her eyes to meet Castiel’s.

“Sure you’re ready?” she asks, teasing in her tone.

Castiel nods solemnly.

Pamela turns the cards over in a line, all six in a row in the order that Castiel had chosen them with the last card being the one that had escaped during shuffling. Dean stares down at the complicated designs, but none are labeled. He waits while Pamela considers the cards, lips pursed.

“You’re an important man, Castiel,” says Pamela, squinting down at her cards. “But you’re lonely.”

Castiel keeps his lips sealed.

“I don’t need you to open your mouth to know I’m right,” says Pamela, smirking. “If you wanna play it that way, fine. Let me tell you about you.”

Pamela points her fingers at the cards as she speaks. “You’re new to the city, feeling lonely, not just in your love life but you feel alone at your job. Like no one’s on your side. The Hermit tells me you’re isolating yourself--but why? What are you hiding?”

It’s a rhetorical question and Castiel makes no move to answer, though he does look decidedly uncomfortable. Pamela lightly draws her finger across the card with its image of a hooded old man.

“But what you want most right now, well, the Magician heralds one thing: new love. I take it that’s why you’re on this date?”

“Oh, we’re not…on a date,” says Dean, gesturing between himself and Castiel. “We aren’t dating, we’re just…” Friends? Enemies? “Frenemies.”

“Are you sure about that?” asks Pamela, raising one eyebrow as she stares between Dean and Castiel. “Because Castiel here has this great fear that everything’s gonna fall apart. This careful lie about it not being a date, the projects he’s working on at work, all of that, just, crumbling down…”

“You’re saying everything’s going to fail?” asks Castiel, his face looking decidedly paler.

“Oh, no that’s just your fears, honey,” says Pamela, sliding a sympathetic hand across the table to lightly rest on top of Castiel’s. “Don’t worry, the reading ain’t over. See Judgement sitting there? That’s what you’ve got going for you, and it’s a good one. New opportunities, new potentials, this budding thing between you and Dean…”

“We’re not dating,” says Dean, feeling frustration rising. He told Castiel how great Pamela was and now she’s messing up on the most basic information.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Dean realizes maybe staunchly denying that he’s on a date might seem offensive. “Uh, not that there’s anything wrong with you, Cas, just…”

“No offense taken,” says Castiel, nodding.

“Well, that makes sense then,” says Pamela, tapping the next card. “Because Justice tells me that things just aren’t going your way.” Pamela laughs as though it’s some kind of joke. “I guess I can see how what with Mr. Winchester’s insistence that this isn’t a date and all. Well, he’s definitely not making this easy for you. But there is good news!”

Pamela gently rests her fingertip on the final card, the one that had flown out at the beginning, “The Sun! She’s a good card, showing that the likely outcome for you is a good one. Although these other cards seem to tell me you’re gonna need some help to accomplish these goals...your three brothers will help you since Dean here is so firmly rooted in denial.”

“Would you stop it,” says Dean, rolling his eyes. “I actually came to ask you about my relationship. A relationship that’s with another man — not Castiel.”

“Are you sure about that?” asks Pamela, parroting her earlier words. “Seems you have some competition Castiel…” She leans across the table and presses her hand lower on Castiel’s back. “Or do you?” As soon as she asks the question, Castiel jumps as though Pamela had goosed his ass.

“Okay, I didn’t bring you here to molest my friend…”

“Your frenemy,” corrects Castiel.

“Same difference,” says Pamela, pulling all the cards in front of her and resuming the strange shuffling pattern she’d done at the beginning of the reading. “If you don’t mind, I got a hot date so…”

She pulls the cards in, cuts them once, and then pulls a card from the middle of the deck. It’s the hooded old man from before. “Well, look at that, your new lover is represented by the same card we drew for Mr. Castiel, I wish I could say I’m surprised but…”

Well, the cards weren’t right one hundred percent of the time. Dean shakes his head.

“One more thing,” says Dean, leaning forward, “I’m working on this project. It’s actually the opposite of Castiel’s, and if his reading went well, what does that mean for me?”

Pamela considers for a moment then chooses a card and flips it over. A large skeleton stands in front of a burning building. Dean doesn’t need it explained to him. He sighs and stands up.

“Sorry, babe, but looks like your project is going up in flames.”

“Yeah, thanks, I gathered,” says Dean, waiting as Castiel stands up and adjusts his coat. “Well, thanks, Pam. I owe you one.”

“I’m holding you to that,” says Pamela. “I wanna bring my new gal pal on one of your tours. If she scares easily, we won’t last long together.”

“Happy to comp you both, just call ahead, yeah?”

“You got it,” says Pamela. She follows them both to the door.

Dean grabs his jacket and holds the door open for Castiel as he smiles politely at Pamela. Before Castiel can walk through the door, she pulls him close and whispers something in his ear. Castiel’s face creases as he frowns, leaning in slightly toward Pamela. At the end of the statement, she slaps her hand against his back again.

“Thanks for coming to visit me,” says Pamela, smiling sweetly before closing the door behind them.

“That was…entertaining,” says Castiel.

“What’d I tell ya?” asks Dean, walking on the sidewalk alongside Castiel.

“Though I do get the feeling she was only telling me things I wanted to hear,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, I wish she’d have told me what I wanted to hear,” mutters Dean. “You think it means I’m going to crash and burn with my online guy as well as with the Marshall House?”

“I think she was pulling cards at random and assigning some meaning to them based on an outline designed to make them seem relevant for the majority of people. Much like horoscopes.”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, grinning, “Aquarius is supposed to make the world a better place, and that’s definitely what I’m trying to do here, don’t ya think?”

Castiel remains silent. He stands with his hands at his side, staring listlessly at a flickering streetlight.

“Sorry about her uh, thinking we were on a date,” says Dean. It feels more awkward once it’s left his mouth. He clears his throat to break the strange silence that follows.

“I don’t mind people thinking I am on a date with you, but I understand that we are not dating,” says Castiel.

The answer is too clinical, too careful. Dean can’t tell if Castiel’s actually offended or not. Or possibly he wouldn’t mind if it were a date?

“Well, Meg might mind…”

“Meg is my roommate and friend from college,” says Castiel, turning to look at Dean’s face as they wait in the chilly streetlight. “We’re not dating. I apologize if I gave that impression, though I dare say that is my family’s intention. My brothers are determined to keep it under wraps that one of the people running our openly Christian company is gay.”

And it makes sense. Because Castiel was hardly surprised at all that Dean was meeting with a man. He’d been nothing but supportive of his relationship with Thursday the entire time they’d spoken.

“Yeah, I’m, uh, bi, so,” says Dean, suddenly unsure why he felt the need to voice it out loud. Because he wanted Castiel to know they could possibly actually be on a date? “So, uh, your driver around?”

“I instructed my driver to pick me up at your house,” says Castiel, pointing down the road. “You’re just down the way, correct? I thought I would walk you home.”

Walk him home. Again. Was this a date?

“Whatever,” says Dean, shrugging in his jacket. He starts off down the sidewalk, Castiel following at his side and slightly behind.

“Why do you believe this woman possesses some kind of supernatural ability?” asks Castiel.

“I was wondering when you’d bring that up,” says Dean, leaning into Castiel as they walk. He looks over with a grin. “Just because I was raised believing in the supernatural, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot, or easily duped.”

“I apologize,” says Castiel.

“I know you don’t believe, you ain’t that hard to read,” says Dean. “See, when I met Pamela, I asked her over for a really special seance at my house. I’d never seen her before, I didn’t tell her anything about myself, or the location, and she walked in and…she nailed it. She nailed me.”

Castiel stumbled slightly and Dean laughs out loud. “Sorry, she didn’t  _nail_ me, nail me, she’s mostly all flirt and no bite. She got everything right. There’s no way she could get all that shit right on accident.”

“But most of what she claims to divine from your presence, are things she can pick up from eavesdropping on locations, or a quick Internet search.”

“She knew shit Google didn’t know,” says Dean. “And Google knows everything, seriously, those targeted ads…spooky as hell.”

“The Internet is a frightening and vast sea of iniquity, I should warn you, it vastly overestimates the number of singles in your area looking to get laid tonight.”

Dean laughs, bringing a hand up to pat Castiel on the back. “That’s a damn shame.”

Castiel grunts and continues walking doggedly down the sidewalk. They turn the corner, and Dean’s home looms closer.

“One of the things she said about me, she was wrong,” says Castiel. “Some of the things seemed uncanny but they can be learned through the right research or calls to my family members. And that’s where erred. She said that all three of my brothers would help make for a better outcome. And that can’t be true. Only two of my brothers are with the company, presently.”

“Maybe she’s wrong, maybe some futures are murkier than others, maybe…your chi is off, or Mars is rising, I don’t fucking know if she’s one-hundred-percent right one-hundred-percent of the time, but I know she’s real.”

The pair pauses at a crosswalk as Castiel pushes the button and returns his hand to his pocket.

“The seance that she did, it was in my own house,” says Dean, barely audible over the night traffic noises. “I invited her in, and she knew that there was a spirit dwelling within. She knew it was my mom. She walked straight to the place where the murder occurred. She said my mother was at peace.”

The light changes, and Dean steps into the crosswalk. Castiel falls a step behind.

“Dean, I had no idea, about your mother, I’m sorry.”

“It was years ago, man, I was just a kid,” says Dean, shrugging. Play it off. No big deal. Just lost the most beautiful person in the entire world before he’d really gotten to know her. No big thing.

“I do not mean any disrespect to whatever good feelings this psychic gave you, but it’s possible she got that information from public records,” says Castiel. “A murder would make the news. It would not be difficult to research.”

“Maybe not, but nineteen-eighty-three was before the Internet as we know it,” says Dean, talking with his hands as he walks. “This psychic knew the date, the time, the exact spot in the house where my mom was killed, she used her finger to trace where the blood stain dripped down the wall.”

Dean stops and turns to stare directly into Castiel’s eyes. “There were no crime photographs available to the public, there was no Internet to leak the images to, there’s nothing online anywhere, to this day, with pictures of that crime scene. And she knew.”

“Perhaps she has someone on the police force?” asks Castiel.

Dean rolls his eyes and continues walking. “She knew my mother’s favorite necklace, knew it was a silver hummingbird with a blue topaz for the eye. She knew that my mother’s favorite place in the house was on the porch. And she even hummed to me the exact song I remember my mother humming while she was singing my baby brother to sleep…”

“Perhaps she saw the necklace left out on a table, a porch is likely a favorite place of many people, and several lullabies are universal…”

“It was ‘Hey Jude’ by the Beatles,” says Dean.

“Well, even if she holds no psychic powers, the comfort she provided you was real, there’s no shame in that,” says Castiel.

The remainder of the walk is silent. Castiel follows close by Dean’s side. When he manages to sneak a glance, Castiel appears lost in thoughts Dean can’t hope to guess. The black company car is parked across the street from the Winchester house.

“Despite what Pamela said, do you still intend to speak with your Internet friend?” asks Castiel. A moth battling the porch light casts a strange, fluttering shadow across Castiel’s face and Dean thinks he looks…worried.

“Ah, yeah,” says Dean, staring down at his boots to avoid staring too long at Castiel’s eyes. He kicks a dead leaf cluttering the porch and frowns. When he finally looks up, he’s immediately drawn to Castiel’s mouth. “It’s all getting to be a bit much. I’m gonna demand to meet him this coming weekend. If he refuses then, I dunno…but I doubt he’ll refuse. I think he wants to meet me as badly as I want to meet him. I mean, he’s…well, it’s hard to talk about without being wildly inappropriate.”

“I’m a grown man, Dean, I can handle speaking about adult topics,” says Castiel.

Dean smirks. “I think this would get a little too adult. I don’t wanna weird you out since I’m about to ask you for a follow-up seance.”

“Another visit to Pamela?” asks Castiel.

“Nah, the old-fashioned way,” says Dean, chuckling. “You, me, and a ouija board. Lucky, I’ve got a great haunted house where we can meet up. What do you say, Friday night, thirty minutes before midnight.”

“I’ll be here,” says Castiel, nodding. “But I thought you were demanding to meet your Internet friend?”

“Well, I’ll just have to convince him to meet me on Saturday.”

Castiel smiles. It’s so simple and small. And for a moment, Dean feels stupid. No, guilty. Is it because he’s seeing Castiel the night before asking to meet Thursday, or because he’s telling Castiel about Thursday while considering how, if things were all completely different, Castiel wouldn’t be a bad date. He’d rescued Dean from his last disastrous meetup. He’d been a good friend to Dean.

What if he was more than a friend?

“That’s good,” says Castiel, nodding.

“It is, it’s just…” Dean leans forward before he can stop himself. There’s a subtle tilt to his head and his height advantage puts him at the perfect angle. If he could just lean forward a little more his mouth would slot perfectly against Castiel’s.

Maybe Thursday would work out—maybe he wouldn’t. But whatever he was feeling for Castiel was something different.

Dean shrugs and pulls back, reaching for the door instead.

“Thank you for taking me along, Dean,” says Castiel.

Dean nods and brings out his keys. “Night, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised smut, but it got pushed to next chapter. Coming on Thursday! Horrible, dirty smut!!!


	11. Stress

The psychic reading is still fresh in Castiel’s mind as he makes his way up to his condo that evening. 

Pamela was obviously good at putting on a show but nothing about the reading had made Castiel believe in the supernatural. Although there were a few parts that were particularly strange.

Like when Pam had questioned whether Dean’s online relationship was different from his relationship with Castiel. Or when she’d touched him on his lower back by chance—just where his tattoo was located. The tattoo Dean was so fond of.

And there was her whispered warning, as he was walking out the door.

_The longer you wait to make your move, the more trouble it’s going to cause. And when he starts to run away remember, Dean’s very close to his family._

The entire exchange was eerie, but not particularly shocking. She was good at reading people. It was probably written all over his face how much he cares for Dean. The way he stares. The way he always seems to be leaning toward Dean, like he’s about to say something important.

And more and more Castiel thinks those feelings might be reciprocated.

There was a moment, right then, at the end of the night, when Castiel could have sworn Dean was about to kiss him. But he had only just finished explaining that he was looking forward to meeting his online relationship.

Perhaps it was time to vanish from online. Thursday could leave without a trace. Castiel could arrive on the scene to comfort Dean, of course.

Castiel stops walking and shakes his head violently. It’s impossible. The only next step for him and Dean is for Castiel to come clean and tell the truth. He can’t disappear without explanation—that would hurt Dean and further complicate the hole he has dug himself into.

The only answer is to come clean to Dean. Friday, during their ouija date.

Not a date--their ouija board meeting.

Castiel steps out of the elevator and walks to his condo door. After the psychic and walking Dean home, it’s already eleven o’clock. But that’s early for Meg.

“Hello? Meg?”

Castiel walks into the condo and shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it up on the coat hanger near the door. He looks across the living area of the condo. Too many boxes line the room to have it look  The scent of popcorn from the kitchen draws Castiel’s attention.

“Meg?” asks Castiel, addressing a sea of curly brown hair facing the microwave wearing comfy pajama pants and a matching shirt. There’s still no answer until she’s turned around, almost bumping her greasy, microwave popcorn bag into Castiel’s dress shirt.

“Holy shit,” says Meg, hissing at the hot bag in her hands. She sets it on the counter, pulls out one earbud, and grips her heart. “Jesus, Clarence, you gave me a fucking heart attack. Where’ve you been?”

“It’s not recommended that you listen to earbuds at higher decibels, you can cause yourself permanent damage that way, you really need to…”

“You’re not my mom,” says Meg, starting to put the earbud back in before Castiel reaches for her wrist.

“Sorry, I was just calling you and you didn’t answer,” says Castiel.

“You’re home late,” says Meg, carefully pulling at the top of the steaming hot popcorn bag. “Hot date?”

“I, well,” Castiel stutters slightly.

Meg’s response is a devious grin. “Oh, you were on a date, do tell!”

“Actually, It wasn’t a date. It was another meeting. With Dean.”

“Again?” asks Meg, one side of her mouth quirking up. “How many non-dates is that now?”

“He’s made it abundantly clear that we are not dating.”

“But you wish you were?” Meg carefully picks up a single popped kernel and blows on it before popping it into her mouth. “It’s plain on your face. So what gives?”

“It’s complicated,” says Castiel, ruffling his hair out of place. “He still sees me as some kind of enemy because of what Angel is doing to the Marshall House.”

“Can’t you hurry that thing up? Just tear it down and force him to get over it, then you two can be on the way to datesville…”

“I offered to move it for him. The entire building.”

“You offered to move a building for this man?”

“Yes,” says Castiel, sighing. “He refused.”

“Damn, Clarence,” says Meg, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth and continuing to talk with her mouth full, “maybe he’s just not that into you.”

“That’s the problem,” says Castiel, pulling his phone out of his pocket and holding it up to Meg. “I happen to know that he is very into me. Well, a version of me. I met him on a dating app. He doesn’t know it’s me, but I know it’s him.”

“Oooh,” Meg’s eyes light up as she pops another handful of popcorn into her mouth, “That’s devious!! That’s so not like you…I love it.”

“I feel like I need to come clean before anything embarrassing happens.”

“Like sexting,” says Meg, cackling to herself.

Castiel stares at her, cold as stone.

“Oh, shit, you sexted him! Did you know it was him!”

“No,” says Castiel, shaking his head. “Not at first.”

“But since then! Oh, this is too good! You are in deep, does he have your dick pics?”

“How would you advise me?” asks Castiel, imploring Meg with his eyes.

“Oh, no way, this is way above my pay grade,” says Meg, laughing as she takes another bite of popcorn. “Plus, I’m probably the wrong person to ask in general. I’m more of an “all’s fair in love and war” kinda girl.”

“I fear he’ll never be able to forgive me.”

“Well, only one way to find out?”

* * *

As soon as Castiel’s alone, he changes into a comfy gray shirt over powder blue boxers and checks the dating app.

Dean’s online, despite the late hour. And there’s a message waiting.

_Strange day. Finally over my cold and I could really use some stress relief. Wanna watch? ;)_

An intense pang of longing shoots through Castiel. Of course, he wants to watch. But after his discussion with Meg, he’s not sure he should continue misleading Dean as Thursday. The proper thing would be to make up an excuse to avoid further sexual contact.

**Wayward67** : hey sexy ;)

**Thursday00** : Good evening. You’re up late.

**Wayward67** : u get my msg?

**Thursday00** : I did. I would say you are entitled to some stress relief.

_Unfortunately, I will be unable to observe tonight._  Castiel types it, then deletes it.

**Wayward67** : was planning on using my favorite toy

_I wish I could see that, but alas_ … Castiel deletes that, too.

Dean’s the kind of man who pleasures himself with toys. It’s too intriguing. Too tantalizing. But Castiel shouldn’t, he should resist.

A picture comes through before Castiel has time to look away.

There’s a toned stomach, tanned with a light trail of hair disappearing into a pair of white, satin panties. The sides are thick lace, showing glimpses of more tanned skin, and the front is shiny white satin. There’s an obvious bulge in the material where Dean’s hard cock strains against the fabric, barely contained by the delicate garment.

Castiel stares at Dean’s cock in its satin prison, imagining leaning forward and mouthing along the outline. The feel of satin on his tongue before he hooks his fingers into the lacy sides and jerks those panties down—but not off.

**Thursday00** : You are the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

**Wayward67** : come play with me on Skype

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

**Thursday00** : On my way.

Castiel rushes about his room, stowing identifying items, and moves his laptop to the bed. He makes sure there are enough pillows to keep him propped up at a comfortable angle while watching the screen. Finally, he angles the camera to show himself from his neck down to his lap

There’s a brief moment in the excitement where Castiel remembers this is wrong. That maybe Dean would object to this behavior if he knew Castiel’s true identity.

Except that line’s already been crossed during their first Skype conversation and other late night exchanges on the app. The chance to make it okay passed that night in Moon River.

Besides, there’s no talking himself out of it when the chime sounds and suddenly Dean’s filling his screen. The camera is further back showing more of Dean’s stomach and chest, but the panties are the same. And there’s an obvious wet spot where the head of Dean’s cock flares behind the fabric.

“Hey again,” says Dean, over the speakers. He has to pause to clear his throat. “Sorry about my voice, I had a bit of a cold recently, left my throat kinda hoarse.”

The video takes a few moments to catch up. Dean poses in front of the camera, sliding one hand down his stomach and over his crotch.

_I’m glad you’re feeling better_ , types Castiel.

“That radio silence thing is still going on, huh?” asks Dean, chuffing to himself. “That’s a’right. I hope you don’t mind, I got started a bit without you.” This time Dean’s hand slides behind the fabric, and he gropes himself while managing to keep all the fun bits hidden by the small panties.

Castiel bites his lip so hard it hurts.  _You look fantastic._

“Lemme get more comfortable,” says Dean, picking up the computer. The screen becomes unfocused as Dean’s chest takes up the entire screen for a moment. When the jostling stops, a set of blue gingham sheets and a dark blue quilt come into view.

Dean starts to pull at the edges of his panties and Castiel is quick to type a command.

_Leave the panties on._

“Well, uh, that’s gonna make this kinda difficult,” says Dean, chuckling to himself as he reaches off camera and hen produces a red silicone toy. It’s a series of anal beads connected to a red handle. The balls start barely as wide as a fingertip and progressively get bigger with the largest being the girth of an average cock. “I thought I would play with my favorite toy…”

Favorite. Dean’s used this before, on himself. When was the last time? Had they already been talking online? Castiel grabs his cock through his boxers. He fights the urge to moan out loud, always cautious with Meg in the house.

It’s much too early to get overly excited. He needs to watch this. All earlier thoughts of impropriety are replaced with cold hard need.

_I want to see those in so deeply only the handle sticks out._

“You kinky bastard,” says Dean, ducking his head when he laughs. The tiny miscalculation allows Castiel to stare at Dean Winchester, in the flesh, cheeks flushed and lips wet.

_Do you like to get fucked?_

Dean moves back out of the camera and from off-screen produces an innocuous bottle of lubricant. He reads the screen as he opens the bottle and begins covering the first smaller balls and works his way up.

“Do I like to get fucked,” Dean reads aloud, and Castiel can hear the smirk. “I mean, yeah, who doesn’t like to get fucked. But if you’re asking if I take it in the ass, well, never tried that before.”

_Really?_ Castiel types it without thinking.

“Uh, yeah, really,” says Dean, chuckling as he circles the beads with his fingers wet with lube. “What incentive would I have to lie to you?”

What incentive. Castiel swallows and hopes Dean can’t sense his discomfort. He pulls his gray shirt over his head, instead. He watches Dean lean closer to his screen and smiles knowing his ploy was successful in distracting Dean away from that line of questioning.

Dean pulls another pillow on top of the one visible and leans himself back slightly, his stomach in a soft curve. Then he lifts his right knee up higher, causing the panties to stretch tighter across his bulge, a thin strip of fabric covering Dean’s crotch.

“This won’t be easy if I can’t take the panties off,” says Dean, reaching down to pull the panties out of the way and revealing Castiel’s first glimpse of Dean’s hole. From the distance, it’s only a shadow, but it’s the promise of more that causes Castiel’s dick to drool.

Castiel pulls down his boxers, his cock springing free and standing up against his stomach where he sits.

_Look what you do to me._

With a slow, firm hand, Castiel squeezes his cock milking out a large bead of precome that glistens on the video feed.

“Yeah?” asks Dean, bringing his hand down to brush over his hole. “Well, you turn me on, too.” Dean adjusts his panties until his heavy cock peeks out of the top.

Castiel bites back a whine. He wishes this was a one-way feed and he would be allowed to move his face closer to the screen, to stare unabashedly. But the camera works both ways, and Castiel ends up stroking his cock firmly while watching.

Dean stops to use the lube again before moving his finger back down to his hole. He uses one hand to pull his panties to the side, and the other he reaches down to touch himself. He wipes the excess lube across his opening with slow, circular motions. Teasing his hole. Putting on a show.

Castiel adjusts his camera to put his cock front and center as he jacks himself for Dean. He needs Dean to see the effect he’s having. He needs him to understand how hard he’s making him.

Any care about his own side of the camera vanishes when Dean shifts to retrieve the red toy. Dean’s calf tenses as he pushes his hips up further, tilting them to allow the first small beads of the toy to swipe playfully across his opening.

There’s a soft gasp as Dean uses both hands to keep his panties out of the way and guide the first ball inside, followed easily by the next in line. The remaining balls glisten with lube, extending out of Dean’s ass like a filthy tail.

_If I was there I would do this part for you. Want to push those balls inside of you slowly, until you beg for more._

Dean carefully works the next red bead past his rim. There’s no hesitation. It’s obviously a toy Dean’s familiar with. He takes a shaky breath when he gets to the fourth bead, the first one of any real girth.

It’s a mesmerizing pattern of pushing gently until Dean relaxes and opens up. Each new bead is engulfed, slowly, then Dean’s rim slams down behind the new intrusion. As the beads get larger, Dean’s noises grow louder.

“I haven’t used this toy in a while, but I felt inspired,” says Dean, his voice breathy and light. Instead of pushing the next bead inside, he tugs on the handle. Castiel watches the way his muscles clench and quiver around the balls.

_Any specific reason?_  Castiel hates typing, it requires pausing his movements on his cock.

“Just keep thinking about when I finally get to meet you…” Dean’s words fade away as he presses the second largest bead into himself and it slowly disappears past his rim. “I can’t wait much longer.”

All that remains is one large bead and the handle. The rest are lodged firmly inside. Dean takes a second to stroke his neglected cock, his hips rolling against the handle.

_You won’t have to wait much longer_ , types Castiel, cursing the need for a keyboard. Especially when his fingers leave smears of precome on the keys to be cleaned up later.

_I can’t wait to feel you._

It’s presumptuous. It’s probably wrong. But, wrong or not, Dean reads the message and groans. He hooks his fingers into the lacy sides of his panties and pulls them down his thighs.

“Pulling them down—not off,” says Dean, panting slightly as he adjusts the panties. They’re still in frame, but no longer hiding anything. Castiel watches as Dean’s cock leaks a thick strand onto his stomach as he prepares for the final bead.

Then the camera jostles as Dean adjusts to bring himself closer to the camera, giving Castiel an up close and personal view of Dean’s most private area.

Instead of pushing in right away, Dean toys with the bead, pushing in, then dragging back out, keeping his rim stretched obscenely around the red rubber. Finally, the last bead breaches Dean, pulling him open for a moment before the ball disappears inside and Dean’s muscles contract around the new addition. Only the handle remains, protruding.

“Fuck,” says Dean, gripping the handle tight with one hand and moving the other to his dick. Smears of lube glisten on the video feed. “Feels so good.”

Castiel wants to tell him how great he looks. How beautiful he is stretched out like this. But Dean can’t read from the current angle of the screen and Castiel’s body rebels at the idea of stopping his steady hand sliding up and down his cock. Instead, he just watches and listens.

“I want you to be the first to fill me,” says Dean, the hand on the handle shoving and pulling on the beads as Dean’s hips push off the bed. The hand on his cock works in time with the pushing and pulling in his ass.

“I want that big cock of yours jammed so far inside of me, want you to fuck me so good I’m feeling you for days…”

Castiel chokes back a groan, hand tightening around his cock. Dean Winchester is trying to kill him.

_Wish I could take you right nwo_ , Castiel types furiously fast, impressed there are few typos.  _I would pull those beads out slowly, one by oen, then fill you with my cock instead._

Dean whines, struggling to look at the screen while using both hands on himself. He jerks his cock in one hand and fucks himself with the anal beads with the other. His hips move with no rhythm, pumping with pure need. Desperation oozes through the video feed.

_Fuck yourself for me._

The camera moves on Dean’s bed, casting a wider frame. The panties still strain, tangled on Dean’s legs as he writhes. His thighs tense with each thrust of his hips, both hands hard at work.

“I want you,” says Dean, his voice rougher than Castiel had ever heard it.

What Castiel wants is for a better angle. Castiel wants to look at Dean’s face while he’s moaning so pretty on video. He wants to witness Dean falling apart.

It’s shameless, the way Dean fucks himself for Castiel’s viewing pleasure. And the noises when he finally comes are unexpected. He tries to imagine how Dean would look under him, whimpering like that.

There’s no gentle rise, only a violent clenching and Dean groaning over the speakers. Dean strokes himself through his orgasm, the first spurts painting his chest and stomach followed by large dribbles down his fist. There’s no attempt to stifle the flow, allowing his come to decorate his bare skin.

Dean’s entire body expands with each breath as he struggles in the afterglow. In his post-coital haze, Dean doesn’t notice when his face comes into frame, staring at the computer.

Flushed cheeks. Glassy green eyes blown wide. He sits exposed and uncaring for Castiel’s viewing pleasure.

Castiel starts to pump his fist in earnest, knowing Dean’s eyes are back on him after probably being gone for a while.

“That’s it,” says Dean, out of breath. “Show me.”

Castiel keeps his strokes tight until he feels his impending orgasm tighten inside of him.

“Can’t wait to taste you.”

Castiel leans back with the force of his orgasm, a loud groan ripping from his lips. He’d kept silent through most of the session, to better hear Dean, but there was no holding back his orgasmic yell. A sound of surprise that he’s able to come so hard just from watching someone on a webcam. Castiel’s hand comes around to form a cage around the head of his dick, trapping the majority of his release.

“Hey,” says Dean, suddenly sitting up straight on his bed. “I think I heard something!”

Castiel freezes, a hand full of spunk.

“Check your computer, dude, I think your microphone was just muted or down low, not broken.”

With catlike reflexes, Castiel bats his laptop off of his bed where it lands closed on the ground with a sickening  _clunk_.

Heart beating out of his chest, Castiel slides off the bed, adjusting his boxers, and checking the laptop.

It doesn’t turn on.

“Fuck,” says Castiel when a loud knock draws his attention.

“Clarence? Are you okay in there? I heard a crash!”

“Everything’s fine, goawayMeg…”

“Okay,” the singsong way she says it through the door is grating.

Guilt rushes in. Castiel fumbles through his pants for his phone and heaves a sigh of relief when Dean’s username is online. He quickly wipes his hands clean on his discarded shirt and types a quick response.

**Thrusday00** : Sorry, I seem to have knocked my laptop off the bed.

**Wayward67** : hehe u had ur hands full

**Thursday00** : I wanted to tell you that you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Castiel feels as relieved as he does guilty. At least he hadn't needed to come clean to Dean right then with come on his hands. 

Despite the shame welling inside of him, Castiel can’t help but wonder about the bead removal and what clean up would look like. He could watch Dean for hours and never grow bored.

**Wayward67** : I’m glad u got on because I needed to ask you about meeting, are you free this sat?

**Thursday00** : What do you say Moon River Brewery at ten o’clock?

**Wayward67** : Sounds good

Castiel sighs with relief as he closes out of the dating app and flops down boneless into his bed. He shouldn’t wait until Saturday. If the opportunity presents itself on Friday, Castiel makes up his mind to come clean.

He owes Dean that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the smut, you guys have no idea how embarrassed I was to post this lol Next time, Castiel gets a chance to talk to Dean.


	12. Seance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean make eyes across a Ouija board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me til this point!

Dean cleans the apartment. Then he sanitizes. Then he cleans again.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. This isn’t a date, and Castiel has already seen his apartment in a state of sickness and disarray.

But Dean cleans anyways.

After the room is shining clean and smelling faintly of bleach, Dean pulls out the brand new Ouija board. It’s the cheap variety available anywhere with a tan background and black lettering. All the letters are present, in alphabetical order, as well as some simple phrases written in the corners. The planchette is shaped like an oversized arrowhead and made of beige plastic.

Dean pushes the couch and chairs out of the way, creating a small clearing in the middle of the room and places the board in the center. The look he’s going for is mystical.

Next, Dean finds a package of tea lights, sets them around the room, and lights them. He turns off the lights in the main room and kitchen; the living area glows from the candles. The usual furniture casts sinister shadows on the walls that flicker and morph with each passing breeze. It’s perfect.

The fridge yields two cold beers which Dean sits on the ground next to the board. He’s standing back, admiring his handiwork when the doorbell rings downstairs.

Castiel’s on the other side of the door and Dean almost trips on the doorstep when he sees him. No trench coat or suit this evening. Castiel wears a button-down gray shirt over form-fitting jeans. Without his layers, Dean gets a much better idea of Castiel’s physique and finds he hasn’t been giving the man enough credit.

Castiel could give Thursday a run for his money.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Uh, Cas,” says Dean, holding the door open. “Come in, I got everything set up for us upstairs.”

After closing the door behind Castiel, they both walk up the stairs and stop.

“Will Sam be joining us?” asks Castiel as they plod up the stairs.

“Nah, he’s been spending more and more nights out,” says Dean, stifling a yawn. “Sorry, he’s been leaving me high and dry on the tours more and more because of this chick. I have another helper, Garth, but…well, he’s no Sam, so I end up doing most of the work.”

“If you’re too tired we could reschedule?” asks Castiel. Does Dean detect hopeful notes in Castiel’s tone? Almost like he doesn’t want to do the seance.

Maybe he’s afraid.

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” says Dean as they reach the top of the steps and look across the room.

The dim lights. The candles. The beers. Oh, shit.

It definitely looks like a date. And not just a date, it looks like some kind of Hallmark movie disaster of a date. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t realize how um, datey, this would look.”

“I don’t know, it looks like a seance to me,” says Castiel, peering around the candlelit room. He hones in on the Ouija board and walks into the clearing in the room. “Did you buy this for the occasion?”

“Nah, I just keep ouija boards lying around the house.”

“I honestly cannot tell if you're joking.”

“Yes, I’m joking, we sell them downstairs in the shop, I grabbed one for the occasion,” says Dean.

“Ah…interesting,” says Castiel, nodding.

Dean sits down first, crossing his legs under himself as he takes a seat where the lettering will be upside down for him. Castiel follows his lead and sits opposite, frowning down at the board.

“You’ve done this before,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, but not for years,” says Dean, shrugging. “Me and Sam used to use one kinda frequently back in the day when I was a teenager.”

“And you believe that you’ve made contact before?” asks Castiel.

Dean nods. “I believe so, and Sam’s a witness.”

Castiel purses his lips together and stares down at the board. “I’ve never used one before.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the talking,” says Dean, cracking open his beer, motioning with his chin for Castiel to do the same.

Castiel pulls the bottle up to his lips and takes a long sip of the beer. Dean watches and finds his tongue automatically going out to wet his own lips.

This new fixation on Castiel’s mouth is strange. Unsettling. Dean takes a long drink of his own beer and reminds himself who Castiel really is. A cold, calculating businessman who disbelieves in anything he can’t tear down and rebuild. He’s the enemy for a ghost hunter like Dean.

Except he doesn’t feel like an enemy. Sitting across from one another drinking beers he almost looks like a friend.

Everything looks softer in candlelight.

“Well, I should give you some background on this house,” says Dean, thumbing the label on his beer as he avoids looking at Castiel’s mouth. “My mom, I told you she died, she was uh, she was murdered here. In this house.”

It’s too much of a statement to voice out loud and just let it hang in the air, but Dean’s had practice doing just that. It doesn’t leave the pang of pain and heartbreak it once did. The years have dulled it to a numbness. Just stating a fact.

“How did it happen?” asks Castiel, his voice soft. Warm.

“Robbery gone wrong,” says Dean, shrugging. “I was only four, I don’t remember any of it happening. I was out with my dad, running some dumb errand who knows. Someone broke into the house and started robbing the place. They took VCRs, cash, jewelry. But they woke up my mom when they went upstairs. She was sleeping, on account of she had a six-month-old.”

“Sam,” says Castiel, nodding.

“Yeah,” says Dean, pausing to take another long drink. “Well, mom woke up and tried to run to Sammy’s room, but one of the robbers got spooked, pulled out a knife, mom got in the way.”

“Did they catch the men responsible?” asks Castiel.

“Ah, yeah,” says Dean, shaking his head. “Yeah, they turned themselves in. Didn’t mean to kill a new mother right in front of her infant, ya know? They plead guilty, and they’re already out on parole. It was ruled an accident. Manslaughter, not murder. They apologized in court, and for years after, the poor bastards…”

Castiel takes a sip of his beer and nods solemnly.

“They were young kids, idiots, made a mistake…but goddamn, they ruined so many lives that day. They robbed the entire world of my mom, but they both went to prison, me and Sammy became motherless, and my dad? Well, he became obsessed with finding proof of life after death—trying to contact mom.”

“He was going through a traumatic time in his life…”

“He worked with Bobby at the salvage yard, but he started a second job during the summers and all his free time, ghost hunting.”

“And did he find any ghosts?” asks Castiel.

“Of course,” says Dean, waving his hand without the beer, “I mean, you nonbelievers will discredit all of it, but dad found plenty of cold spots, people that had witnessed apparitions…”

“But did your father ever find what he considered concrete proof?” asks Castiel.

“Dad believed if that’s what you’re getting at,” says Dean, glaring across the Ouija board at Castiel. “He knew spirits were real, and that mom was trapped in this house. She was watching over us. Sometimes I wonder if she hasn’t moved on, though. Maybe because Dad passed. Car accident. His fault. Drinking involved.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“You say that a lot,” says Dean, shaking his head. “I’m not telling you this as some kinda sob story, just, before a ghost hunt you wanna know the history of what you’re looking at. Same with this setup. So, yeah, young mother…my mother.”

Castiel nods, still looking much too serious for Dean’s liking.

“Alright, you know how to do this, right?” asks Dean, gesturing at the planchette set out in the middle of the board.

“I looked up a YouTube video this afternoon,” says Castiel.

“You looked up a YouTube video on ouija boards this afternoon? At work?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not gonna get in trouble with your boss for that?” asks Dean, grinning.

“I can’t possibly be in more trouble with my bosses,” says Castiel, his laugh void of any real humor.

“Oh yeah what happened?” asks Dean.

“Well, someone’s petition went through and the City Council’s small group in charge of my project has called an emergency meeting tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit,” says Dean, sitting up straighter. “My petition?!”

“Yes,” says Castiel, shoulder hunching over where he sits on the ground, staring at the board. “My brothers are very displeased that there’s still any amount of resistance. We’re going to be showing up there tomorrow, to plead our case.”

“Then…I should be there!”

“That would be wise, to argue your case,” says Castiel, not looking up.

“Wait, you’re giving me good advice right now?”

“I hope so,” says Castiel, finally looking up, a candle’s flame dancing in his pupils.

“But I’m your enemy, I’m the reason you’re in trouble with your brothers, and…”

“I’ve never seen you as an enemy, Dean. I admire what you’re doing. I just feel it’s misguided. And I don’t believe you’ll win your case.”

“Yeah, that is what Pamela’s cards said,” says Dean, sighing.

“No, not because of some cards, or an Ouija board, or spirits, I believe you’re going to lose because there’s no such thing as ghosts and the council won’t take you seriously.”

“Well, ghosts or not, you’re still defacing a landmark…”

“I’m improving it, making it more structurally sound, and keeping all of its character with the renovations…”

Dean grabs his beer and takes a long, loud swig. “It’s almost midnight, we doing this or what?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” mutters Dean. “See if that YouTube video taught you anything.”

Dean puts his hands in front of him on the planchette and lightly settles his hands on the plastic. He gestures with his chin down at his hands, and Castiel takes the hint. When his hands join Dean’s on the planchette, the entire peace shifts from the H to the K.

“Whoa, okay, you can’t be so heavy on it,” says Dean, shaking his head. “You gotta touch it lightly, just barely touch it.”

Castiel lifts his fingers up and tries again, this time the planchette barely shifting at his touch.

“Yeah, yeah like that,” says Dean, adjusting his own feather-light touch. “If you expect the spirit to be able to move it at all you have to be barely touching it.”

“Why touch it at all?” asks Castiel.

“Because she’s moving it through us, you just, go limp, okay? Don’t think about moving just try to open yourself up…”

Castiel’s fingers lift from the planchette and flutter slightly before settling back on the plastic piece, fingertips brushing lightly together.

Dean freezes, hyperfocused on his own hands on the planchette. The feel of Castiel’s fingertips so close to his. They’ve been close before but have they ever really touched? There’s something electric about it. Drawing him in. Fighting the urge to lift his finger and gently brush back against Castiel’s.

It’s been too long since Dean had done anything as simple as holding hands with another person. He misses it. But perhaps he’s only feeling this way because he’s meeting with Thursday tomorrow night. It’s right around the corner, now.

So he definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a candlelit room imagining holding Castiel Novak’s hands.

Dean clears his throat. “Hello, any spirits that may be present here this evening. Make yourselves known to us.”

The strange energy hovers in the room as Dean stares hard at the Ouija board. The letters are arranged in alphabetical order but there are also pre-made ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ spaces on either corner of the board. It’s not disorienting to see everything upside down. It was always this way with Sam, too.

“Are there any spirits present this evening?” asks Dean, keeping his voice conversational.

There’s a soft adjustment of the planchette with each breath and Dean comes to realize he’s somehow synced his breathing with Castiel’s. He glances up to see if the man has noticed, and finds that Castiel is staring directly at his face—not at the board.

“Watch the board, you gotta take this seriously,” says Dean, muttering to himself. He closes his eyes to set a good example.

“Spirits, let us know that you are here, give us a sign…”

Dean squints his eye open and finds Castiel is sitting with his eyes closed. Then he leans forward slightly, and the planchette jumps.

“Whoa, was that…”

“I pushed it, when I adjusted, sorry,” says Castiel.

“Oh, yeah, of course, no problem,” says Dean, guiding the planchette back to the center of the board. “You’re putting too much pressure still, here, hold out your hands.”

Castiel complies and Dean holds his own hands out, hovering a breath above Castiel’s. He brings the palms of his hands onto the top of Castiel’s hands, barely touching. The softest scrape of skin is felt and an abundance of heat radiating between the two.

“See? That light. If you hold it too firmly, the spirit can’t guide your hand…”

When Dean drops his hand, he finds that Castiel’s staring again. Blue eyes wide and cheeks slightly pink.

“Just, focus, would you?” asks Dean.

He clears his throat and puts his fingers back on the planchette, and Castiel follows suit.

Minutes tick by and Dean has to lift one hand up to stifle a yawn.

“How long do you plan on sitting here?” asks Castiel.

“What? It’s barely past midnight,” says Dean, yawning again, even louder than before. “I hate to say it but, I feared this would happen.”

“You asked me for a seance at your house because you said it was haunted…”

“It was haunted,” says Dean, nodding as he stares down at the board. “My mom, I mean, when I was young, there were so many signs. She used to answer yes and no questions. I’d update her about Sam and Dad. There were other signs around the house, too. Pictures with mom in them would turn down by themselves, and her favorite necklace was always wandering around the house. But as Sam grew up, the signs just, stopped being as frequent. I haven’t even tried an ouija board in almost ten years. I’ve been afraid, ya know? Afraid that she’s…that she moved on.”

“Hasn’t she been dead for almost twenty-three years now? Don’t you want for her to find some peace? To move on to…heaven or some place of final rest?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” says Dean, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I want. I guess it just hurts. Feels like…losing her all over again.”

The room grows silent as they wait, fingers resting lightly on the planchette.

“Just give it a little longer?” asks Dean, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” says Castiel.

* * *

The date is intimate. The low lighting, the warm room, sitting on the floor with their hands touching. If Castiel didn’t know Dean Winchester better he would have thought this was a masterful seduction.

Instead, he knows it’s simply an attempt by Dean to contact his dead mother. That fact sours the perceived romance into something melancholy.

It’s difficult to keep his eyes closed, especially when Dean’s eyes are closed and he’s so close. Castiel hasn’t had a chance to look at his face this close up. On camera, he’s always hiding his face, and in person, staring is considered rude.

Dean’s lashes are long and thick. Maybe the longest Castiel’s ever seen on another man. There’s the lightest speckling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. The candlelight turns his hair more strawberry blond and Castiel wonders if he resembles his mother or his father.

There’s no doubt he’s falling hard for Dean.

The night was meant to be a chance to come clean about his identity, but the time feels wrong. Dean seems too serious. Too distraught about his mother. Too depressed about another failed supernatural experience.

The silence stretches on before Castiel finally closes his eyes and leans over without moving the planchette. He moves until his face is right beside Dean’s.

He can feel Dean breathing, steady and slow. Deep breaths like someone in a trance.

It’s now or never.

“Dean,” whispers Castiel, afraid to disrupt whatever spell has settled over their room. “I’m sorry I didn’t find a time to tell you before, but I was afraid…so very afraid that you would reject me without knowing me. But after I came to know you, I realized that in order for us to have any chance of a true friendship, I need to be honest with you.”

Dean takes a deep, stuttering breath. Castiel keeps his eyes glued shut and licks his lips in preparation.

“It’s me, Dean. I’m Thursday.”

Castiel cracks one eye open, in time to see Dean give a loud snore and lean forward until his forehead comes into contact with Castiel’s shoulder.

Of course.

“Why does this have to be so difficult,” mutters Castiel, sighing as he tilts his head to rest against Dean’s where he’s propped up on Castiel asleep. “I wish I had some confirmation that you wouldn't’ reject me. I don’t want to lose you.” Castiel turns his head slightly until he can kiss lightly at Dean’s hair. “If you knew the truth, would you stay?”

Dean snores and jerks, causing the planchette to move violently as he sits upright and opens his eyes. “What, whoa, I’m awake…”

Castiel glances at the board where the planchette points directly to ‘Yes.’

Wishful thinking.

“Dean, you’re very tired, we should call it a night…”

“What? No, I ain’t…tired…” Dean yawns. “Sometimes these things take time.”

“Then I should insist,” says Castiel, grabbing his beer and standing up. “It’s been a nice hour, but you should really sleep. You need to look your best for the council meeting tomorrow.”

“Yeah, good point,” says Dean, pulling out his phone and staring. From his position standing over Dean, Castiel catches the smallest glimpse of black lace visible where Dean’s jeans pull away from his body as he sits on the floor.

“Checking on your internet friend?” asks Castiel.

Dean glances up, looking decidedly guilty. “No, I was checking the time, it’s not even one yet…”

“How are things going with your online friend?” asks Castiel.

“Oh uh, him, yeah, he’s…”

There’s a hesitation there. Dean’s stalling.

“Here, I’ll walk you out, okay…”

“Sorry if I brought up a sensitive subject,” says Castiel, walking the beer bottle to the trashcan before following Dean’s lead out the apartment door. They walk silently down the stairs into the dark shop below.

“It’s not…a sensitive subject, I mean…well, it’s not really, it’s just…”

“Dean, I should tell you…” Castiel swallows hard and steels his nerves. “These last few weeks with you, I have really enjoyed getting to know you. Even though we’ve found no concrete evidence of the supernatural, I feel like I’ve witnessed enough of your enthusiasm to have to admit that maybe there are things out there we don’t understand. Maybe not ghosts, but…”

“You don’t have to give me some pity bullshit I know you still don’t believe, I was stupid to think…”

“Sorry, I’m not trying to talk about that,” says Castiel, stumbling over his words in his attempt to get them out quickly. “Not really. What I’m trying to say is that getting to know you, and spending time with you, it’s been…”

“Oh…” says Dean, quietly as his sleepy eyes get wide. “Oh.”

“What I’m trying to say is…”

“Listen, Cas, I think I get what you’re trying to say here…”

Does he? But…

“And I gotta be honest, I don’t hate you nearly as much as I thought I did. I get that feeling like maybe there’s something here, but I owe it to this guy…I don’t know if I told you, but I’m meeting him, tomorrow. Same time as before, actually.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to say ‘oh.’

“I guess I just feel kinda attached to the guy like I owe him at least a meeting before…”

Dean takes a small step forward, crowding Castiel between the door and his body. Their eyes meet for a brief second.

“I think what I’m trying to say is, whatever’s going on between us, I’m not trying to deny it, but…I just need some time. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” says Castiel.

When Dean opens the door, Castiel steps outside into the cold, dark night and prepares to walk home, kicking himself the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a tease, but next chapter is the big reveal, Dean meets Thursday no more stalling :)


	13. Another Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important meetings

Dean tugs at his tie. Maroon, with stripes. He hates this fucking tie, but he wears it anyways. Gotta look the part as he’s walking into City Hall, Sam and Jess on either side.

A bored security guard waves a wand over them before allowing them access to the building. This time, Dean heads straight toward the large auditorium marked City Council Meeting Chambers.

City proceedings never interested Dean before, and he has no idea exactly how he should behave. That’s where Sam and his fancy law degree come into play. Sam and Jess seem to know exactly where to sit, when to look, and how to act. Dean mimics them to the best of his abilities but strays for a moment to write a message.

_Can’t believe I get to see u tonight. I’ve got a hell of a day I can tell u all about. Lots of stuff has come up lately but I still know that I wanna meet u, see you tonight_

Dean fires the message off to Thursday with a grin on his face.

A council clerk leads the pledge of allegiance, then opens the floor to opening remarks. The council members take their seats. It’s not a full meeting that day, only those on the committee dealing with the reconstruction efforts by Angel Construction.

The meeting is well underway when Castiel walks in.

Castiel’s face is determination and fire. Is he upset that Dean followed through with his petition? Fuck, he looks handsome. Castiel’s dark hair is untamed, standing up in odd places. His blue eyes are intense and focused on the council members at the front of the large room. He wears his recognizable trench coat, obscuring his navy suit and tie.

The crowd is sparse, and Castiel scans the room and easily catches Dean’s eyes.

Dean smiles. Nothing smug or challenging, just pleased to see Castiel. Surprisingly, Castiel smiles back, starting small at first, then showing teeth.

Shit. What is he doing? He can’t make heart eyes at his enemy right in the middle of a city council showdown. It’s okay to think Castiel’s sexy, but he’s still the reason Dean’s in danger of losing his home. And, besides, Dean spends his nights at home jerking off thinking about another guy.

Dean diverts his eyes and keeps them that way.

Eventually, motions and speakers lead to addressing the citizen’s movement to protect the Marshall House. Sam, Jess, and Dean approach the podium and stand, keeping their hands respectfully folded in front of themselves.

Sam presents a prepared introduction, and Jessica lists out the concerns about changing the structure and losing the historic landmark. They’re both much better at speaking in public than Dean. He’s relieved he won't’ be called to speak before the crowd of bored old people. Jess’ statement concludes, and the members begin their discussion amongst themselves.

“Thank you for your concerns,” says a gray-haired councilman. “While it is always a shame to lose a piece of our city’s history, it is always a great sight to see progress. The new structure will be better constructed, stand longer, and maintain the spirit of our Marshall House.”

“I was able to attend a corporate meeting with Angel Construction,” begins a black councilwoman with short hair graying at the temples, “and I heard them discuss, at length, the quality of the architect in charge of the Marshall House redesign. It’s my belief that this project will be a boon to our great city. While it is important to hold our past dear, it is counterproductive to grip so tightly change is prevented, because this change will be for the better.”

Dean listens to them speak, his face falling further and further into a sullen frown. There’s no chance for a counterargument. The council has read their petition and heard their speech.

How much money would it have taken to buy enough of the members to win the vote, Dean wonders to himself.

Two other members speak similar sentiments before a wiry old man with wild white hair stands up. He looks so much like Doc Brown Dean considers checking the parking lot for a DeLorean with a flux capacitor.

“I agree with the citizens,” says the councilman, breathing too heavily into his microphone. “The Marshall House is a gem, it’s old, it’s haunted, it has the kind of character you can’t manufacture. But, I can’t see how refusing Angel the right to build here will help our city. Likely just prolong the inevitable. Best to get it over with.”

“Dammit, Doc, the future is whatever we make it,” says Dean, before being immediately shushed by Sam and Jess.

A vote is called. The majority goes for allowing Angel Construction’s plans to continue. Dean wishes he wasn’t standing up in front of all these people wearing this terrible suit. He needs to get the hell out of there. He needs…

“Council, if I make may say something, on behalf of Angel Construction?”

Castiel carefully approaches the podium next to Sam and Jess. He looks back at Dean and smiles before pulling the podium microphone close to his mouth.

“I wanted to inform the Council, and all concerned citizens, that pertaining to the Marshall House, the project is on hold, until it can be guaranteed that the project will appease both the citizens and our people. Instead of tearing down the building, we will work hard to keep as much of the infrastructure intact as possible. When the reconstruction does occur, I feel confident it will meet the demands of all groups. Thank you.”

No one seems to care. There’s no standing ovation or applause. Apparently, the Marshall House isn’t big on the minds of these City Hall types. But Dean is left reeling, staring at Castiel.

“You’re doing that, to help the Marshall House? You changed your mind about it being haunted?” asks Dean, stepping closer to Castiel until they’re only an arm’s length across.

“I’m doing this for you, Dean,” says Castiel, speaking softly. “It’s the least I can do.”

“But…why?” asks Dean.

“You won’t let me move the house, so at least let me make it right with you,” says Castiel, smiling. “I can’t say that I believe in ghosts, but if someone as smart and passionate as you does then who am I to say, one-hundred-percent, that there is nothing special about this house. I owe it to you to make sure everything is handled in the proper manner.”

“That’s so great of you,” says Sam, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. “I guess this means we get to keep it on the tour?”

Jess gives a wide smile, “Maybe Dean will even be able to write an entry about it in his book!”

“I’m impressed with all you three have done for this project, and I’m glad I’m in a position to help,” says Castiel.

The Marshall House. Renovated, but no destroyed. Dean has won.

Yet, nothing would change. The taxes are still going to come due and he will have to face losing his house.

“Excuse me,” says Dean, leaving their small group as he weaves through the crowd, through the security checkpoint, and out of City Hall into the afternoon sunlight.

Fuck. It’s a win—so why doesn’t it feel like a win? Maybe if he’d been more honest with Sam, about the financial problems. Now he would have to admit that not only are they going to lose the house, but he’s wasted all of their time and energy fighting a man who turned out to be not a bad guy in the end.

He should have been writing instead of fighting.

Great that he had saved the house for the spirits inhabiting the Marshall House. But he was going to lose his connection to the one spirit that meant anything to him, dwelling in his own house.

“Dean?”

A quick glance proves it’s Castiel, standing in his trench coat frowning. Dean sighs and starts walking away from City Hall.

“Whatdya want?”

“You’re not happy with the results,” says Castiel, footsteps closing the distance between them as Dean walks.

“Hey, not your fault, man,” says Dean, shrugging in his suit jacket. “I appreciate what you did.”

“But it doesn’t fix your problems.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks and turns to stare at Castiel. “What the hell do you know about my problems?”

Castiel shakes his head slowly. “The first day, at the town meeting, you said that my company was causing your taxes to go up. Me saving this building won’t help that. But you fought for it, so hard. I thought you would be happy.”

“I’m happy that the house is staying, yeah, score one for the ghosts,” says Dean, reaching up to loosen his tie. “But, you’re right, I’m still fucked, and everything’s complicated now, and just…”

“I could help you if you needed it,” says Castiel, keeping his eyes trained to the ground. “I could join in your tour company as a silence investor? Just while you’re writing…”

“No, stop it,” says Dean, resuming his walking as he turns the corner around City Hall.

“I don’t understand,” says Castiel, once again walking fast to catch up. He almost bumps directly into Dean when he stops again and turns.

“I have my own life, I have my own problems, fighting you was a good distraction, but now? Now you’ve just…I can’t let you do those things, I can’t…

Castiel’s face tilts as his brow furrows. “I fail to see…”

Dean reaches out and cups Castiel’s cheek. He holds it there for a heartbeat, the entire street suddenly quiet. Dean leans in and presses their lips together. It’s a cool night, and Castiel’s lips are slightly chapped but incredibly warm. A delicious sigh escapes when Dean moves his lips gently against Castiel’s before pulling away.

“I don’t think I hate you anymore,” says Dean, staring into Castiel’s eyes while licking his lips—lips that had just touched Castiel’s. “But there’s something I have to do tonight…I have to be sure…I’m sorry…”

Dean turns and walks away, his pace unhurried. He holds his breath, listening hard to any sound of steps on the sidewalk behind him.

When Castiel doesn’t follow, Dean’s unsure whether he feels relieved or disappointed.

* * *

Back in his mostly-unpacked home office, Castiel stares at Dean’s message from just before the council meeting. From just before their kiss.

He wants to respond. He  _needs_ to respond. He can just let Dean know that he doesn’t need to worry. That Thursday he’s been salivating over is also Castiel. This should be a good thing for him, right?

“Whoa, what’s that face about, champ?” asks Meg, wearing a black pencil skirt and white, silken blouse. “Don’t tell me it’s Dean again?”

“It is.”

“Then what’s got you looking so constipated?”

Castiel offers a quick glare at the language. “I’m scheduled to meet him tonight.”

“But you just spent last night with him! Don’t think I didn’t notice you coming in after one in the morning…”

“We were having a seance.”

“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days?”

“But, tonight,” says Castiel, brushing aside Meg’s taunting, “he’s supposed to meet his online friend.”

“Holy shit, so you’re taking that step, huh?!” Meg claps her hands together and smiles. “That’s so awesome for you, but listen, I actually was coming back here to get you because Michael’s on the business line.”

“Is it important?” asks Castiel. Because nothing is more important than Dean in that moment.

“Probably,” says Meg, shrugging. “He sounds pissed.”

Castiel picks up the phone on his desk. “Michael?”

“Hold for Mr. Novak,” says a nasal voice, followed by muzak. Of course, Michael would put him on hold. What had he expected?

“Castiel,” says Michael, “the project manager told me you ordered to cancel the demolition appointment.”

“Yes, I did,” says Castiel.

“Okay, well, I uncanceled it,” says Michael. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Father, for Christ’s sake. He would side with me on this, Castiel. You cannot do this. I already called the wrecking crew, the date stands as originally scheduled for this coming Monday.”

“But, I told Dean…”

“Who?” asks Michael. “No one cares about some citizens, this is business, no charity. Now listen to me, Nick is on his way down to help on this one, I called the whole family. Just, sit tight until we get there. Don’t make any more public statement, do you understand me?”

“Of course,” says Castiel.

“I’ll call you once I land in Savannah.”

The line dies and Castiel stares at his desk. He’s disappointed his family and Dean. Castiel needs to warn Dean before he finds out and misinterprets it to mean that Castiel lied to him.

He’s done lying to Dean. And he knows exactly where Dean will be after work.

Castiel calls his car and makes his way to the Moon River Brewery.

He’s settled into a spot at the bar when he checks his phone. No new messages and still a half hour before Dean arrives. Perhaps it had been too soon to order two beers that sit sweating on coasters in front of him.

“Miss me?” asks a cheerful voice next to Castiel’s ear.

Castiel jumps so quickly he sloshes ale out of his glass onto his trench coat. “Gabriel?”

“Double-fisting it?” asks Gabriel, gesturing at the two beers Castiel holds. “I’m proud of you! My little brother, growing up so fast…”

Gabriel takes one of the beers and brings it to his mouth, taking a long sip. “Mmm, not bad, I usually don’t ‘beer before liquor’ but hey, first time in Savannah, live a little, amirite?”

“What are you doing here?” asks Castiel, setting down his beer in the wet spot he’d created when he splashed.

“What do you think I’m doing here? I happened to be in New York City when you called in the order to halt demolition, Mikey sent out a distress signal and I hopped a flight,” says Gabriel, pausing to take another sip. “Mikey thinks you’ve lost it. Don’t have what it takes. Can’t very much fire family from the family business. At least, he can’t. He’s trying to get dad to take a trip.”

“Our Father is coming here, too?” asks Castiel, feeling his mouth suddenly fill with saliva and a nauseous feeling settle in his liver.

“Hell no,” says Gabriel, chuckling. “Old man’s dance card is full up, he has a tee-time at the Wailea Emerald Course, he wouldn’t give that up for anything, especially not firing his favorite son.”

“Then why did you come?” asks Castiel.

“Because it seems to me that you might wanna follow in the footsteps of your favorite big brother instead of waiting around, watching Michael and Lucifer prepare to tear each other apart.”

“The company is thriving,” says Castiel, frowning. “Michael is a competent CEO and Nick makes more cash with his Las Vegas branch than any other. They put me in charge of Savannah. I only wish they would let me operate this branch without their interference.”

“No no no no no,” says Gabriel, waving one hand while holding his beer in the other, “that’s not how this works, Cassie. Right now, they are fighting for dominance, trying to tear this company apart, they need dad to pick a side and he’s staunchly refusing. They were fighting over me, and my performance up in Williamsburg the same way they’re playing you in Savannah. You can’t win. You can either do what Michael wants you to do, do what Lucifer wants you to do, or take my path…”

“Your path?” asks Castiel.

“Yeah, man, when stuck between a self-righteous Rock and a self-serving Hard Place…bail,” says Gabriel, pulling a long drink that drains the remaining beer. “Ahh, really not bad, you lucked out with this city, though I do rather miss Virginia…”

“What do you think Michael wants to do?” asks Castiel, still fighting off his nausea.

“Mikey wants to be the Boss! He wants his supporters to make more than Lucy so he can stop that braggart in his tracks.”

“And Nick?”

“Well, Lucy wants to break the company into pieces, of course,” says Gabriel, sitting strangely on his bar stool by tucking one leg under himself and letting the other hang. “I mean, his branch does make the most money, he has a successful business he runs without Mikey’s help. He wants all the credit.”

“I don’t understand what they want from me, or why Savannah matters to them.”

“Mikey needs you to succeed and add some support to his bid for CEO, and Lucy wants you to succeed so he can declare to break the company up into smaller pieces.”

“But all I want is to do good by this city,” says Castiel.

“Well, ain’t that noble of ya,” says Gabriel.

“Listen, I know it’s been a year since we had a chance to catch up, but tonight is a really bad night, I’m afraid this is the worst possible time because…”

“Cool it, little bro,” says Gabriel, smiling. “I promise you, I came here to help you—to look after your self-interests. I’m not here for Mike or Lucy, they can suck it. I won’t let them oust you, either. This is your city. I can’t promise you’ll get everything you want, calling off the demolition was a bold move, but still…”

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice rings out like a beacon. Castiel turns around and finds himself staring at a confused Dean Winchester wearing an olive green Henley shirt over jeans with no jacket. His hair’s obviously spiked with some product, and his face is shaved clean.

“Dean,” says Castiel, turning his back to Gabriel and staring directly into Dean’s eyes. “I have something important to tell you…”

“Well, uh, hello? Who’s this hottie?” asks Gabriel, turning to smirk at the two men having a stare-down in the middle of the brewery.

“This is Dean,” says Castiel, turning his head without his eyes diverting from Dean’s in the slightest. “Dean Winchester. The man who started the petition.”

“Well, tickle my giblets, what a coincidence, we were just talking about Cassie’s work issues,” says Gabriel, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Please, allow me to buy you a beer! The pale ale is delicious unless you want something else?”

Dean’s eyes remain locked on Castiel. He offers the slightest shrug to Gabriel. “Whatever.”

“Cool, three ales coming up,” says Gabriel. He turns his back to the group and leans over the bar, his fitted collared shirt riding up his back.

Castiel turns his attention back to Dean whose eyes glue to Gabriel as he bends over the bar. “I need to tell you that my brothers vetoed my rights as the project manager. The demolition is going to happen next week, according to the plan. Because the council gave our company the go-ahead, the only damage is to public opinion due to my own personal promise. My brothers are both flying in to reprimand me. I’m sorry, Dean. I failed you. My hands are tied.”

“Who’s that?” asks Dean, his voice tight as he points towards Gabriel, still leaning over the bar chatting up the bartender.

“That’s my brother, Gabriel,” says Castiel, sighing. “He’s been out of the business for a while, I haven’t spoken to him in a year. He just got into town, to help stand with me against our brothers.”

“Gabriel,” says Dean, his face paler than usual, making his freckles more noticeable. “He’s new to town?”

“Very new,” says Castiel, eyes squinting as he attempts to determine what’s upsetting Dean. “Are you alright?”

“I-I need to get outside, for a second,” says Dean. He turns and walks out of the brewery, just as Gabriel turns around with a beer in either hand.

“Where’d the hot guy go? I was gonna try to get you laid Cassie. I’m an excellent wingman. Get it? That’s why we got the ink, right?”

* * *

Dean stumbles onto the sidewalk in front of Moon River.

The night was so confusing.

It was bad enough that he was going to meet Thursday, but instead, he runs into Castiel at the bar—again. Well, he had told him they were meeting in the same place. But something strange had happened when Dean walked into the brewery and saw Castiel standing by the bar talking to a stranger.

Dean’s eyes were immediately drawn to Castiel. His traitorous heart performed a neat flip. Castiel was at the Brewery where he was meeting Thursday, and in that moment Dean knew. He wanted it to be Castiel.

Whatever he was feeling for Thursday was a simple kind of crush, but when it came to Castiel he was completely smitten. They had fun together. Castiel stood up for him in front of City Council. And he was handsome as hell.

It didn’t matter so much that Castiel’s brothers had vetoed his right to halt the demolition. Not really. It’s the thought that counts. And Castiel’s thoughts were obviously of Dean.

Which made it that much more gut-wrenching when Dean had seen it, right there on the back of Castiel’s brother.

The tattoo that haunts Dean’s spank bank.

Gabriel was Thursday. Castiel’s brother—of all the people in the word.

Dean had walked into the brewery determined to meet Thursday and let the man down easy. Thank him for the good advice and hot nights, but admit that he’d met someone else. These things happen.

But instead, Dean learned that the man he had been naked and masturbating in front of was the brother of the man he wanted to be with. It was like a waking nightmare.

How could he ever expect to be with Castiel, now?

Castiel, who went out on a limb for his beliefs. Castiel who went to a psychic took a ghost tour, endured a seance, and even an old-fashioned breaking-and-entering spook out. Castiel who was walking out of the brewery, his face tight and frightened.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

“I’m…” Dean shakes his head. Alright? He’s far from alright. He’s met the man he’s been lusting over, only to realize it wasn’t the man his dumb heart actually wanted. “Not even a little.”

“I let you down,” says Castiel, sighing. “I will still help you, Dean, however I can, but my brothers, they…”

Dean turns on Castiel and moves into his personal space. “I’m not upset about that. It’s not that at all. It’s…”

Castiel’s head tilts slightly as he stares at Dean.

“I told you I was coming here to meet Thursday,” says Dean.

“Yes,” says Castiel.

“Well, I saw him, and he wasn’t the guy, he wasn’t…”  _You._  Dean shakes his head. “I just need a second…”

“Hey, you two can’t just ditch me to walk out here and make-out like teenagers,” says Gabriel, a cocky grin plastered on his face. “Come back inside, you horndogs, the beers are here!”

“Just a second,” says Dean, pulling out his phone and opening the dating app.

_I’ve really enjoyed talking with u. Unfortunately, I met someone more compatible. No hard feelings. Thanks for all the hot nights, ur going to make someone a lucky man._

He should feel worse about standing up someone—but it’s really only fair play considering he was stood up the first time. Dean hits send and releases a long exhale.

Dean lifts his eyes from his phone and stares at Gabriel. The man is shorter than Castiel and his longer hair flops like a puppy as he cocks his head and considers Dean’s strange behavior.

A vibrating noise comes from the two brothers.

Castiel reaches into his trench coat pocket and brings out his phone. He checks it, while Dean stands to glance between Castiel and Gabriel, then back at his phone.

Message read.

Castiel slowly raises his eyes from his phone and meets Dean’s.

Because Castiel read the message. Because Castiel is Thursday.

The realization blooms in Dean’s eyes while they remain locked with Castiel’s.

“I feel like I really missed something, here,” says Gabriel, frowning between the uncomfortable staring competition.

“You?” asks Dean, staring at blue eyes and searching for any emotion that wasn’t nervous regret.

“Yes,” says Castiel.

Dean brings a hand up to his forehead. Castiel is Thursday. He’s known since their first meeting at the brewery. The night that began their friendship.

What were his intentions? He had jerked off on camera for Dean and then spoken to him the next day as though they were acquaintances. What the fuck…

“I gotta go,” says Dean, turning and walking away down the sidewalk. He hears the brothers arguing in his wake, but he doesn’t slow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, this is probably more plot and less naked than we were hoping for, and there's some bumps to traverse here that definitely are different than the movie version but I hope everyone enjoys the plot and don't worry they'll have an adult conversation about this and figure it all out soon :)


	14. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving me comments and supporting this story <3 You guys make me keep going

It’s dark. Cold. Walking keeps Dean from feeling the chill. He focuses to keep his mind blank—as blank as possible. Doesn’t think about Castiel. Doesn’t think about Thursday. Doesn’t think how they’re the same fucking person.

It’s hard not to relive every moment since his last time at the Moon River Brewery. Castiel must have walked into the bar, recognized him from his descriptions, and chose to keep it a secret. Chose to be misleading.

And everything since then he had done knowing Dean was his online romance. The breach of trust is a hard swallow. But what did it matter, if Dean had made up his mind just that day that he liked Thursday but wanted to try to be with Castiel?

Dean reaches the house and walks up, for once relieved that Sam’s been spending all his free time with Jess. It means solitude. It means not having to talk about the disgusting knot of feelings filling up his chest.

Why had Castiel kept it a secret for so long?

All thoughts of a quiet contemplative period vanish when Dean opens the door and crashes head first into Sam’s chest. He knows it’s Sam’s chest because he’s staring at a green apron and a name tag.

“Uh, Sammy?” asks Dean, slowly canting his eyes up from the name tag to meet his brother’s face. It’s a familiar expression—like Sam can’t decide exactly how much he wants to frown so instead his mouth and forehead twitch between several different versions all at once. It always means one thing. Guilty.

“What the hell is this?” asks Dean.

“Oh, man, this means your date? I’m sorry Dean, how bad was it?”

“Don't change the subject,” says Dean, raising his voice and a finger, “please tell me you’re going to some kind of college costume party and this was the best you could come up with for free…”

Sam sighs and stares down his own body as though he’s shocked this green apron, name tag, and dorky collared shirt have appeared on his body. He closes his eyes when he finally speaks. “Look, try not to get mad?”

“Oh, too fucking late there, what is going on?”

“Dean, I found the taxes,” says Sam, opening his eyes. “I know how worried you were, and you told me not to worry, but I worried.” There’s so much compassion in his eyes, so much understanding. Deep, green, bottomless. Fucking obnoxious.

“That’s not your problem, that’s my problem, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You got a job?”

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off before he can speak.

“Of all the places to work, you went and got a job with fucking Starbucks, are you insane? What about school? What about finding an internship? You should be focusing all your attention on law school.”

“What, while we lose the house? I don’t care if you want to sell, I wish you would sell this house, I want you to be happy, and you could be happy running the ghost tours out of a cheaper location. You could use all the money from the sale to pay off loans, buy a new place, travel some to finish the book, you don’t need…”

“When have I ever failed to take care of us? You think I’m going to fail now? What, because the taxes went up, I have other ways to make money, I have time, I’m already making plans to finish the rest of the book, it won’t even take that long if I just focus, but how can I focus when you’re taking on extra jobs instead of focusing on becoming the best lawyer in the country?”

“Would you stop,” says Sam, expression hardening. “Stop treating me like a fucking child, Dean. I’m twenty-three years old, I’ve been working just as hard as you have on this company since dad died, I should be allowed to make decisions about my own future, and I can decide if I want a job to contribute to this family.”

“You have a job, you’re in law school, and you help me with the tours.”

“But it’s not enough, I saw it, I know why you got so passionate about the Marshall House, you wanted to stop the gentrification so the taxes would go down, but it was a short-sighted plan, it’s not going to happen fast enough to save our house. You should have known that.”

“I did know that,” says Dean, scowling. “I realized, pretty quick, it wouldn’t help anything, except to make me feel better about myself. I needed a win. Sometimes there’s just some visceral pleasure to be taken by pissing into the wind, dammit.”

“It’s okay if you sell the house, Dean.”

“It’s not okay, and you fucking know it,” says Dean. “You and I are the only people in the world that know exactly why we can’t sell this house! Because if we sell this house, what’s to say Angel Construction won’t target this place next? Tear it down, and destroy our last connection to mom.”

“Dean,” says Sam, pausing to release a long exhale. “Mom’s not here.”

Dean can’t stop the grin on his face. Because it’s ridiculous. It’s the same ridiculous argument for the ten-billionth time. “You know, as well as I do, that’s a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” says Sam, taking a breath and squaring his shoulders. “It was me.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Nice try, Sam. You were young, maybe you don’t remember everything.”

“No,” says Sam, clenching his fists at his sides. “I was young, but I remember. I knocked over a picture of mom holding me as a baby, and dad holding you on his shoulders. It was an accident, I was just playing. I thought I’d get in trouble, but when dad found it on the ground he…he cried. I was hiding—I didn’t wanna get screamed at. I didn’t know if he was sober, or not. But he didn’t scream, he just cried, and talked to mom. Said how much he missed her.”

Dean’s forehead remains creased as he watches Sam speak, waiting for him to make some kinda sense.

“After that, I did it, frequently,” says Sam. “I would put the picture on the ground, or place it face down on the table. I got into her jewelry box, too, and put her favorite necklace on dad’s pillow. It was their anniversary, and he was particularly sad that day. I heard him, in the hallway, telling mom he missed her so much and wanted a sign she was still around. I was just a kid, I thought I was doing something nice.

“Eventually, I realized how misleading it all was, how wrong, but Dad was so happy working on his book, and we were a family, even if we were driving everywhere and sleeping in a car. When the book was a success, and the tour company started, I saw no reason to shit on his parade and admit that…”

“Those weren’t the only signs, Sam. I brought Pam here once, remember?”

“I mentioned that stuff to Pam, I told her about mom,” says Sam. “I didn’t want the reading to disappoint you. She’s good at reading people, but she’s putting on a show, man. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Sam holds up his hands in a helpless gesture. “It was a dumb kid’s mistake. I never came clean to dad, I thought I’d never have to come clean to you, either. I mean, what harm is there, really, in letting you believe that mom is still around in some metaphysical sense instead of just in our memories? But if you’re going to bankrupt yourself to keep this house because of a stupid childish mistake, then…”

Sam shrugs, and it’s a huge gesture. Not because he’s so tall and broad, but because it signals the end to a crushing confession.

Dean stares around the main room of the house. The maps, the pictures, the historical ghost stories.

“I don’t believe that,” says Dean.

“Believe it,” says Sam, his tone full of tough love. “Believe it, because it’s true. I’m not lying anymore.”

“I know you’re not lying, and I know you believe that you’re always doubting the supernatural, but I happen to believe differently,” says Dean. He twirls one finger around in a circle. “All this? I do this because I believe in this. I’ve seen things that make me believe, even if your tricks were fake, other things aren’t. Mom’s in this house, and we’re not moving.”

Dean storms upstairs, going into his room and grabbing an old army surplus duffel bag that used to belong to dad. Dean stuffs it full of clothes and the journal his father left behind. He slings it over his shoulder before walking downstairs and grabbing the Impala’s keys from behind the store counter.

“Wait, where are you going? Is everything okay? What happened with Thursday? Can we just talk for a minute?”

“I think I’ve had enough of liars confessing to me tonight, thanks,” says Dean, walking to the door. “We can talk when I get back.”

He leaves no indication of when that might be.

* * *

Castiel sprints down the sidewalk. The fact that he’s wearing his suit and coat gives the impression that he’s running from the law.

But Castiel doesn’t care. It’s already taken him too long to shake Gabriel so he can run after Dean.

“You’ve reached Dean Winchester with Winchester Ghost Tours, leave a message and I’ll get right back with you.”

No answer. Dean hasn’t answered any of his summons on the messaging system, nor his phone calls.

Castiel throws open the wrought iron gate and almost trips on the uneven porch steps. He slams the side of his fist against the door several times and waits, chest heaving.

Sam Winchester opens the door, just a sliver, the chain still in place and his green eyes wide. “Castiel?”

“Sam,” says Castiel, between gasping breaths. “I need to speak to Dean.”

“Dean,” says Sam, fumbling with the chain, “he just left, he took the car. I’ve been trying to call him but he’s not picking up, which...isn't surprising.”

“Fuck,” says Castiel, shoving his fingers through his unruly brown hair.

“Whoa, you cursed, um, okay,” Sam finally swings the door open an takes in the sweaty, disheveled Castiel on the porch. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Do you have any idea where Dean may have gone?” asks Castiel.

“Come inside, man, you look like you’re about to pass out, d’ya want some water?”

Castiel stumbles into the house, finding the main room much as he remembered it. He walks over some of the seating for ghost tour participants to use while waiting. He lands heavy in the seat and exhales, long and loud.

“Mr. Novak? Castiel? What’s going on?”

“I need to speak to Dean, it’s important.”

“Well, sorry about that, Dean’s kinda pissed at me. He left in a hurry and I don’t know where he’s going.”

“He’s pissed…at you?”

“Yeah, we had an argument, and he rushed off.”

“But…but,” says Castiel, his breathing finally starting to regulate. “Dean is angry with me.”

“Why would he be angry with you? Aside from the whole, Marshall House business.” Sam walks to the small fridge beneath the counter and retrieves a water. He walks back to sit next to Castiel on the bench, holding out the offering.

“My brothers came into town,” says Castiel, accepting the water and twisting it open. “They’re going ahead with the demolition. Everything I promised, I had to take back. They overrode my authority.”

“Well, that would make him upset, but surely not the end of the world,” says Sam, leaning back until his head cracks against the wall. “Dean knew it was a crap shoot from the very beginning. Even if you’d been able to help delay the inevitable, it wouldn’t have stopped Dean’s problems. His problems were this house. Which we can’t afford. Trust me, he might have been upset at you for that, but he ran off because of me.”

“What did you do?” asks Castiel, staring at Sam.

“I got a job,” says Sam, tapping his name tag over his green apron.

“There is some shame in getting a job?” asks Castiel.

“There is when Dean works himself to death to afford all my college and books and keep this house,” says Sam. “He’s always been a stubborn ass about it. When our dad was alive, he was usually obsessing over some project or drunk, and Dean took care of me. After dad died, Dean took over officially. He’s always taken care of everything for me, even though I’m perfectly capable. I got this job to help him with the taxes. He sees it as some…failure on his part, I don't’ know. He left pissed at me.”

“Ah,” says Castiel, frowning to himself. “Dean fears losing this house because he believes this house is special.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, pushing his hair behind his ears. “I kinda destroyed that, too.”

Castiel gives a flat stare that demands clarification.

“I admitted to Dean that, when I was a kid, I used to move around mom’s stuff, to fool dad into believing it was her ghost. I thought it was a nice thing to do! When I got older, I stopped, but I was too scared to upset them and admit what I’d done.

“He was mad that I had gotten a job, and I begged him to reconsider selling the house, by explaining that it’s not haunted…”

“That would definitely cause Dean to storm out of this house,” says Castiel, sighing. “I am still due a large part of the blame, though.”

“Look, you did all you could, Dean will understand that and forgive you, once he gets over this.”

“That is not the only reason that Dean has to be angry with me,” says Castiel, staring at the water bottle in his hands. “I went to Moon River tonight.”

Sam looks up at the ceiling for a moment and hums quietly to himself. “Dean was going there to meet someone.”

“Dean was going there to meet someone he knows from a dating app, someone called Thursday.”

“Wow,” says Sam, scoffing quietly to himself. “You two are closer than I thought if he told you about Thursday.”

“He did tell me about Thursday,” says Castiel, nodding. “I met him in person before I knew. I should have come clean, but I knew Dean would never have continued communications if he knew the truth, because of his assumptions about my family business.”

“Holy shit,” says Sam, shaking his head. “Are you saying that…no, wait, you’re…you’re Thursday?”

“Correct,” says Castiel, turning to meet Sam’s astonished eyes.

“Oh, shit, yeah, no wonder he rushed out of here,” says Sam, shaking his head so hard his hair flies free. “This is bad, this is really bad, finding out that we were both lying to him.”

“Where do you think he would go?” asks Castiel.

“Before you showed up, I figured he would go over to Bobby’s and drink his anger away, but now I’m feeling like he probably went somewhere else…” Sam’s face goes blank in an instant. “Wait.”

Sam stomps upstairs and Castiel is hot on his heels. The apartment area looks clean, the sofa and chairs still pushed back where the seance had taken place the night before. Sam moves directly to the counter and shoves a stack of loose papers aside before slapping the counter. “Fuck. It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?”

“Dad’s journal,” says Sam, frowning down at the counter. “Dean took it, he’s probably halfway out of town by now, off to do some kinda ghost hunt. He said he was trying to finish dad’s book so he could afford the taxes—so I wouldn’t have to work. That’s definitely what he did. Except there’s no way in hell to know where he was going—dad had like, fifty locations in that book, and even more, if you count the one sentence ideas, not just the places he had researched.”

Sam’s phone was in his hand. He presses one button before giving an irritated grunt. “Dean, you need to call me, if you think you can just storm out of here, and go on some kinda hunt by yourself, that’s fine, but you need to tell me where you are, so I know you’re safe.”

Castiel paces while listening to Sam leave the message. There’s a chance Dean might ignore all of his and Sam’s messages. He needs to speak with Dean—in person.

The pacing abruptly stops as Castiel pivots to stare directly at same. “Are there any locations on that list that have…familial ties?”

“Familial, you mean like, something that was haunted by our family? Because this house is the only one.

“No, the other book of your dad’s, I read it, it opens with the Winchester Mystery House in California. Dean values family above everything else. He’ll want another location like that one to use as the book’s premier location.”

“But he already did the Winchester house, that’s the only one I can think of in the book that’s connected to our family name…”

“What about your mother’s family? What was your mother’s family name?”

“Campbell,” says Sam, his eyes slowly opening wider as he thinks. “There’s a place on there, one of the ones Dean had planned to visit. It was the old Campbell House Inn, though it’s got another name now. It’s in Lexington, Kentucky, that’s a drive but it’s doable…”

Castiel pulls out his phone and immediately calls a familiar number. “Meg, I need you to charter me a flight.”

* * *

Dean’s exhausted when he pulls up to the Crowne Plaza the next morning. The entire drive should have taken around eight hours, but Dean had pulled over around three to catch some sleep in the car. He pulls into the hotel parking lot around eleven in the morning and looks around.

A large statue of a thoroughbred stands in front of the hotel building. Yep, he’s definitely in Kentucky. The front doors are framed by thick, white columns, matching the rest of the building’s white, plantation-style design.

The Campbell House Inn was the kind of location that screamed dark history. Too much luxury to not be plagued by the evils of human suffering.

Dean leaves the Impala parked out front and wanders into the lobby. He’s surprised to find the area bustling with activity. Men and women with luggage and sunglasses laugh and talk loudly. Dean has to navigate carefully to reach the front desk where a woman with a huge, gray updo is speaking with the clerk.

“You don’t understand, my husband and I are supposed to have a suite, but the room we’re in is only a regular room…”

“I do apologize, madam, but the hotel is completely booked for the ceremony…”

“I’m well aware of that, dear, my son is the groom, and I’m supposed to have a suite…”

“I apologize for the inconvenience. I would be happy to comp one of your nights and send up a bottle of our finest champagne, free of charge.”

“Free of charge? Why would I care about that? My soon-to-be in-laws are sporting the bill. I don’t care about saving  _them_ money, I care about having a suite at least equal to that of the mother of the bride, do you hear me?”

Dean rolls his eyes, causing a clerk behind the counter to cover her mouth lest her smile be seen as provoking the unhappy guest. She motions with her chin for Dean to come to another register where she’s standing.

“Sorry about that, the wedding has everyone a little on edge,” says the clerk whose name tag reads ‘Melissa.’ Her fingers pick their way across the keyboard before she meets Dean’s eyes and smiles. “Checking in?”

“Hi, yeah, I’m actually doing some research about hotels in the area, for a book I’m writing,” says Dean, plastering his most charming smile in place. “I don’t have a reservation, but I saw this place and I just knew it deserved a prime spot on this travel guide I’m writing for publication. Are you sure there isn’t any small room I could use as a base for a couple days while I search the property? I want to produce a write up that will make your owners proud.”

“I’m sorry,” says Melissa, frowning. “You heard correctly, I’m afraid. Every single room and broom closet has been rented for the weekend, save for the Presidential Suite.”

“And how much would the Presidential Suite run me?”

“About three-thousand dollars a night.”

“Ouch,” says Dean, and he means it. The number physically hurts him.

“I’m really sorry. If you’re going to be sticking in the area I can book any room you want, starting Monday…”

“You sure you don’t wanna talk to a manager about this? I mean, this book is going to be a best-seller, and it can either feature this hotel, or it can feature another in town. You think your manager agrees with your assertion that there’s really nothing available?”

“I could ask her when she comes on her shift in an hour, but we’re booked out through Monday night.”

Dean stares down at the hand bell on the counter. To his left, the angry mother-of-the-groom is still growling at the clerk about her room situation. Dean has no desire to make that kind of scene.

“Tell you what,” says Dean, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a business card made up for these situations. It lists a pseudonym, his cell-phone number, and then “Travel Guide Publisher” which sounds completely made-up but never failed his dad. “Go ahead and book me a room for Monday, a single will be fine, and give me a call at this number if you have any cancellations before then?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Ford,” says Melissa, smiling. Dean returns the smile and waits for her to complete the reservation before smiling as he walks away.

The wedding. If he can just crash the event, he’ll have free reign of the hotel that night, even without a reservation. Maybe he can perform the entire hunt without needing to stay here at all. That would be money savings.

If only he had packed a suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah because last time wasn't bad enough, now we got Sam confessing at horrible moments, too. Welp.
> 
> Good News: Cas and Sam guessed right and Dean and Cas are about to meet back up, AND get to do another ghost hunt together, and have some real talk and maybe even resolution to all this sexual tension. The Bad News: I'm going out of town. So I am going to miss a couple upates. I'm sorry! I wanna say that I'll edit and make it for Monday, but I don't wanna stress myself out while on vacation so you can watch my tumblr for updates but I will be missing some updates. I'm sorry!! We're coming up to the last few chapters and I can't wait to share them with you all! Thank you for sticking with this story!!! It's almost finished!


	15. Woman in White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas meets back up with Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in this posting. I'm proud to announce it's finished and going to be finished very soon.

A mob of people in wedding attire greets Dean when he returns later that evening, after the ceremony and well into the after-party. His rented black suit blends into the crowd, even if the fit isn't perfect. On short notice and a tight budget, it was the best he can achieve.

A sign in the lobby announces the wedding of Jack and Carolyn. A tall, broad man with a shaved head and earpiece guards the entrance to the main ballroom. Dean ignores it, for now, walking closer to the hotel bar.

A small 'Sorry! We're Closed!" sign hangs from the tap, but a woman in a uniform with thick black hair pulled into a tight ponytail sits behind the counter, organizing glasses.

"Evening," says Dean, walking up to the bar and putting on his most charming smile.

The bartender drags her eyes up and down Dean in his suit a couple of times. Irritation melts into something softer and she smiles as she sets down a thick tumbler glass.

"Evening to you," she says, a smile turning up one side of her lips. "Wedding's back that way." She jerks her chin toward the entrance and picks up another glass from a clean tray, though her eyes remain on Dean. He catches sight of her name tag.

"Oh, yeah, you seen one 'I do' you've seen 'em all, am I right...April?" Dean rests one elbow on the bar and leans into it, smile still firmly in place. "I was actually curious about this place."

"The bar?"

"This hotel," says Dean, gesturing widely to take in the entire area. The furniture is modern but the architecture remains eighteenth-century with wood paneling, fancy crown molding, and rich paintings in gilded frames. "You worked here long?"

"I've been here two years, full time," says April, pausing in her glass organizing as she purses her lips and considers. “I worked here a couple of summers during college before that, too."

"So you know everything about this place?"

"A fair amount," says April, bending down to rest her elbows on the counter as she leans closer to Dean. "You're interested in the hotel? Really?"

"Yeah, really, what's so unbelievable about that?" asks Dean, smirking. "I mean, before it was a hotel, this place was the Campbell House, it's really old..."

"Well, only the parts that are the original building. Most of the hotel rooms these days are in the new wing, built about thirty years ago."

"So which part is the original building?" asks Dean.

"That'd be the lobby, the main ballroom area, and some of the suites are also in the main building, like the Honeymoon Suite."

"Ah, romantic," says Dean, wagging his eyebrows. "So the uh, Internet says this place is haunted.” He pauses to give a quick grin, “What do you think?"

"I think the Internet can be  _pretty_ unreliable," says April, scoffing as she pushes off her elbows and picks up a new clean glass, setting it alongside others on the bartop. "Although there are some things about this place that definitely give me the creeps."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Well, the stairs in the ballroom, for one," says April, working as she talks. "There's this stain, they say it's blood from when a woman was stabbed to death there. We have a cleaning service that comes every night but the stain remains--even after they replace the carpet!"

Part of Dean latches onto the information. He remembers Pamela pointing to a wall in his house. At the time, it had seemed like such concrete evidence of the psychic's powers. Now, Dean knows that Sam was likely the culprit behind the accuracy. A stain at the Campbell House Inn isn’t proof of anything.

"Sounds spooky," says Dean, grinning, "I hear some lady was murdered on the third floor or was that the same person?"

"No, different woman," says April, nodding, "Murdered by her own husband on her wedding night."

"Fuck," says Dean, before he can filter himself. Luckily, April only smirks. "I mean, sorry, but, why the hell would anyone hold their wedding here knowing that?"

"The grand staircase out front—not the stained one, it's gorgeous and it curls up in front of those tall windows. It makes for a beautiful wedding picture."

"So I take it the Honeymoon Suite is the haunted one?"

"No, actually, there were some complaints, back in the day," says Pamela, chuckling. "People claimed to feel cold spots and see a woman in white walking the halls. So they renamed the haunted suite and today’s Honeymoon Suite is in a different room near the original.”

"Good to know good old Jake and Sheryl won't have to share their wedding night with a couple of ghosts,” says Dean.

"I believe their names are Jack and Carolyn?"

"Well, thanks for the advice, April," says Dean, standing up and starting to wander away.

"You're really only interested in the hotel? Not, I don't know, when I get off work? Which is in one hour, by the way..."

"Sorry, I actually left a date back at the wedding," says Dean, giving his best impression of a sheepish grin.

April looks genuinely upset. Dean turns his back and starts walking.

Normally, a hot woman in a bar is a gold mine. But something has changed since he met Thursday. Since he met Castiel.

There’s only one person Dean wants. And that person betrayed his trust.

It hurts. And Dean doesn’t want to think about it.

Thinking about a ghost hunt is easier.

The third floor seems like an inconspicuous place to begin. Dean walks to the elevator and grimaces when he spots the key swipe in the elevator to access the third floor.

Well, he can sit in the elevator until someone happens to swipe for the third floor, but without knowing how many rooms are there he could be waiting a while. Hotel employees may become suspicious as to why he’s trying to sneak up into the room areas.

The haunted staircase seems like an easier target

Dean walks back to the lobby and toward the wedding party and the man with the shaved head standing guard.

“May I see your invitation, sir?” asks the bouncer, his voice, and expression bored.

“You know, I left it up in my room, and my date is already inside, would you mind if I just…”

The man moves to place himself more firmly in Dean’s way.

“Look, you’re really gonna make me go all the way back upstairs just for a…”

“No invitation, no entry,” says the bouncer, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “We’ve had a real problem with wedding crashers lately.”

“Wedding…I mean, who would  _do_ such a thing? That’s despicable, I’m not…I’m Jake’s buddy from college, we went to school together, and…”

The bouncer looks less and less impressed as Dean waffles on. He’s about to tuck tail and leave when—

“He’s with me.”

The bouncer turns, and Dean’s at a loss.

“Hello, Dean,” says Castiel.

“Cas? What are you doing…” The bouncer narrows his eyes “…already down here without me! I forgot my invitation in the room and this guy…”

“You’re free to pass,” says the bouncer, stepping out of the way.

Castiel raises a single eyebrow at Dean.

Dean smiles at the bouncer and steps around him, “Thanks, sorry for the confusion.” The smile falls as soon as he’s behind the man. Dean stalks past Castiel straight for the nearest uniformed attendant carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

Looking angry while sipping champagne from a fancy glass turns out to be rather difficult. Dean glares at Castiel anyways when he appears at his side.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” asks Dean. 

“I came to see you, I thought that would be obvious,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, but how the fuck did you find me? You guys got a tracking device on my Baby? Where’s Sam?”

“I came alone,” says Castiel, his face earnest concern. “There are things you and I need to discuss, privately.”

“Yeah, well, you caught me at a bad time, kinda in the middle of a hunt right now,” says Dean, slamming back the remainder of the champagne. “How did you find me, though?”

“Lucky guess,” says Castiel, straightening his shoulders. “I talked to Sam.”

“Ah, great, you two have a lot in common, since lying to me is apparently a huge hobby for both of you guys.”

“Sam told me what happened,” says Castiel, frowning. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Whatever, I can’t do this now, I’m looking for a stain.”

“A…stain?”

“Yeah, C'mon,” says Dean, walking through the maze of people and tables until he finds a staircase leading to an open upstairs area that overlooked the makeshift dance floor.

The stairs are carpeted with a faded green and floral motif that clashes with the otherwise neutral decor of the room. The rest of the area is a wooden parquet dotted with tables covered in long, white tablecloths and dishes of water with floating candles for centerpieces.

A couple walks in front of them, hand in hand, and Dean falls in line close behind, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“What are we looking for?” asks Castiel, bumping into Dean from behind when he pauses to closer inspect one area.

“A stain, on the carpet,” says Dean, half kneeling before he remembers he’s in a room filled with people. He straightens his posture and continues walking, but his eyes remain vigilant.

The swirling pattern, the weathered state of the carpet, and the low mood lighting of the wedding venue make it an impossible feat.

“Dammit,” says Dean when they reach the top of the stairs. The upstairs areas is quiet corners and empty tables with a few couples sitting close over drinks. “Let’s go back down…”

“Actually, it’s quiet here, maybe we could talk for a moment,” says Castiel.

A slow song begins and downstairs people rush to couple up and crowd the dance floor. One couple blocks the staircase while they debate whether or not to join.

Dean sighs. “Then how about you start with the most important part. The brewery, months ago, why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you never mention that you were my date?”

Castiel tilts his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “Would you have continued to talk with me if I had come to the brewery that night and been upfront? Not to mention the caveat that you were my self-proclaimed enemy at the time and I had shared pornographic pictures with you.”

“I shared pictures back with you, too,” says Dean, scowling. “And continued to do so, without knowing who you were. That was a dirty thing to do.”

“For every picture that you sent, I sent one in return,” says Castiel. “If you desired, now, you could use them against me, ruin my reputation, and get me fired from my family’s business.”

“Like I would do something like that, I ain't-a douchebag,” says Dean.

“I know you’re not, and maybe you have little reason to trust me, but I promise you, I would never do anything invasive like that with your photographs, either. Those are private, for my eyes only.”

“I never would have sent them if I had known it was you.”

“You sent the first pictures before I knew your identity. You had no reason to trust Thursday, but you did, and we were both cautious about revealing our faces, which is wise. I never recorded any of our video chats.”

“Me either,” says Dean, chin up in a quickly melting look of defiance, “though, kinda wish I had.”

Castiel blushes in the low lighting, clearing his throat as the slow music drifts from below. “I apologize, for lying to you, and keeping my identity a secret, but I can’t regret taking the chance to get to know you. I am telling the truth about my brothers. I had no idea they would band together against me. I was told I was the head of this project, and I’m furious that they would undermine my authority, especially considering how badly it’s hurt you…”

“Nah,” says Dean, shrugging in his ill-fitting suit. “I mean, I believe you about that part, at least. And it’s no big deal.”

Castiel’s mouth hangs open for a brief moment before he realizes and clamps it shut. “You’re…you’re not upset about the Marshall House?”

“I mean, it sucks, but nah.”

“But you walked out of the bar after I told you I couldn’t save the Marshall House, and…”

“Oh,” says Dean, chuckling to himself. Great, his turn to blush. “I actually walked out of there because I caught sight of your brother’s tramp stamp.”

Castiel’s face twists into a look of utter confusion.

“I take it you two are twinsies?”

“Why would that make you walk out?” asks Castiel.

“Because I went there to meet Thursday. And I saw his tattoo, and I assumed that, well, I wasn’t really thinking straight to begin with, and I was already unsure if I wanted to meet Thursday at all at that point…”

“Why?”

“Because Thursday was hot, but he wasn’t…”

Castiel tilts his head, waiting.

“I thought he wasn’t you.”

“Oh.” Castiel exhales the word. It fills the silence that follows Dean’s admission.

“Not like I expected the Marshall House to work out, not after what Pamela said, about it going up in flames.”

“Funny you should mention Pamela,” says Castiel, glancing over the railing at the dancers below as the song shifts from slow into a raucous dance beat. “She’s actually part of the reason I’m here. Sam and I deduced that if you weren’t at Bobby’s house, it was likely you had gone somewhere to work on the book, considering that you took your father’s journal, of all things. It was Pam’s warning to me that made me ask about this place. She told me as I was walking out, that you would try to run away…”

“Pam’s known me a while, that’s kinda my entire M. O. With relationships, it doesn’t take a psychic…”

“She told me to remember that family was important to you,” continues Castiel. “I asked Sam about someplace in the book with familial ties since the last book opened with the Winchester Mystery House. He immediately thought of the Campbell House Inn.”

Dean frowns. That was a little coincidental. Though it had always been his intention to include this location based on that exact same fact. More likely Sam had just remembered him talking about it in the past.

“I suppose that’s a little strange…” says Dean, frowning. “Still, you never believed this stuff from the beginning. I’m not even sure I believe anymore.”

“Then there’s the thing with my brother,” says Castiel, nodding. “During my reading, she told me all of my brothers would join into the fight, and I was sure she was a fraud because my brother, Gabriel, left the company completely over a year ago. When he showed up out of the blue, that was another rather strange coincidence.”

“Yeah, what is the story with that guy, anyway?”

“He worked for the company, was given a project similar to mine up in Virginia. Nick and Michael fought so much over the project that nothing was ever completed, and Gabriel left the company. Not officially, but he doesn’t have a title or any active projects. The family just politely ignores that he’s not coming to work. The same way we do for my dad.”

“You have a weird family,” says Dean, before stopping to shake his head. “I guess I can’t talk. Look at my family. Ghost hunters. Man, my dad…”

“When I was a child, my mother and father were in a terrifying accident,” says Castiel, his eyes gentle when Dean meets them. “They survived, but my father was declared dead for several minutes before the team was able to revive him. And during that time, he had a vision. Or, he went to heaven, depending if you believe him or not.

“He dedicated his life to God after that, going so far as to rename his company from Novak Construction to Angel Construction. And of course, naming all of his children after angels. He tells everyone he meets that angels are real, that there’s a heaven where we all go after we die.”

Dean frowns. He knew Angel Construction was a religious company, but he’d never heard much about the founder.

“My Father is not a frivolous person,” says Castiel, still serious and stern. “I believe that he believes what he saw. I’m not the kind of person to dismiss someone’s beliefs outright, no matter how skeptical I might feel. There have been ghost stories around for as long as there have been people—who are we to say they’re all wrong? I don’t believe in angels or ghosts, but there are enough unexplained phenomena in this world that I don’t outright dismiss anything.”

“Huh,” says Dean, shifting in his rented shoes. “Guess I hadn’t thought about it like that.” Castiel smiles at him and Dean’s cheeks ignite in a flush. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. But I know people enjoy books about hauntings. I think I still have an open enough mind to finish the book, even if only for that reason.”

“I respect your work ethic,” says Castiel. “I’m confident you can achieve your goals.”

“Wait, you’re named after an Angel?” asks Dean.

“Ah, yes,” says Castiel, smirking suddenly. “The Angel of Thursday, actually.”

“Y…” Dean’s brain stops working for a second. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Castiel grins, shaking his head. “It’s the truth.”

“So if I had done a Google search on your name…”

Castiel shrugs.

“Well, I think this stain on the stairs is a bust, or at least I can’t see it in this light,” says Dean, sighing. “There was a murder on the third floor, people reported seeing apparitions, but I couldn’t get a room in the hotel…”

“I got a room,” says Castiel.

“How? How did you get a room, and into this wedding? Don’t tell me you’re also Jake and Sharon’s college friend.”

“No,” says Castiel, grinning. “I walked in with a woman who was without a date. We took a few photographs together before she met up with her friends. And the room was available but expensive.”

“You’re…no, this is perfect! Did you rent the Presidential Suite? On the third floor?”

* * *

Dean follows Castiel into the elevator, and it’s familiar. Comfortable, even. Spending time with Castiel. And it’s a testament to how strange their relationship has become that ghost hunting feels normal.

A man and woman jump into the elevator at the last second, crowding Dean and Castiel into the corner and slamming the button for the second floor.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna make me miss the big exit,” whines the bottle-blonde, teetering on her heels. “I might’ve caught the bouquet!”

“Which is exactly why we’re going to the room,” says the man, laughing.

“I wanna throw rice,” says the woman, sounding half asleep already.

“They’re blowing bubbles.”

“Laaaame,” drawls the woman as the man navigates them through the opening doors. There’s indecipherable chattering and giggling before the doors close leaving Dean and Castiel alone again.

The doors open for the third floor and silence rises to greet them.

“The wedding’s almost over,” says Castiel, stepping into the hallway.

“Good,” says Dean, fishing his digital camera out of his suit pocket and looking through the view screen. “That means it’s almost midnight.”

“What happens at midnight?”

“You turn back into a pumpkin,” says Dean, looking away from the camera and into Castiel’s confused face. “That was a joke, Cas, it’s just, ya know, the witching hour, and all that jazz.”

“The deaths that occurred on the third floor, they were at midnight?” asks Castiel.

“No, she was found dead the next morning, they only have a rough estimate of the actual time of death. We’re talking before modern forensics here.”

“You were insistent on midnight during our other seance before, as well.”

“C’mon, it’s common lore, right? Midnight, the witching hour, the liminal veil is weakest between two states of being and…”

“Liminal veil?” asks Castiel.

“Can you just play along,” says Dean, sighing. “I’m thinking we turn off the lights here in the hallway and use these instead.” Dean reaches into another suit pocket and produces a handful of tealights.

“You brought candles to a wedding?” asks Castiel.

“Kinda,” says Dean, shaking off some of the residual wetness from the candles.

“Did you fish these out of the centerpieces on the reception tables?” asks Castiel.

“No,” says Dean, raising his chin, “Maybe.”

“Resourceful,” says Castiel, smiling.

Dean returns the smile, chuckling quietly in the hallway. He checks his phone and Castiel crowds him, looking over his shoulder.

“Okay, we’ve got about ten minutes…”

“And you’ve got about a hundred missed calls,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, Sam’s a worrywart.”

“He cares about you,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, well, I care about him,” says Dean, shrugging. “I care about him more than anything. And I failed him.”

“You didn’t fail him. Sam’s very worried about you. He’s a grown man, he should have some work experience…”

“Look, can you save your lectures for after the hunt?”

The third floor consists of a short hallway that dead ends into a large potted ficus in front of a window. Antique light fixtures and paintings in gilded frames line the walls. There are only two doors leading away from the hall.

“Do you want to continue the hunt in my suite?” asks Castiel.

“You trying to lure me into your hotel room, Cas?”

“I only meant…”

“Well, Jane Doe died out here in the hallway, so this is our best chance,” says Dean, reaching out to the wall and flicking off the hallway lights. The area is dark except for soft moonlight filtered in through the window. “That’ll work.”

Dean busies himself setting out some of the candles and lighting them. They form an incomplete semicircle around the largest space of uninterrupted carpet in the hallway.

“Is there something I can help with?” asks Castiel, hovering awkwardly while Dean prepares the dark hall.

“Uh, sure, you’re in charge of the camera,” says Dean, reaching into his pocket to retrieve one of the digital cameras usually reserved for his tours. He hands it over to Castiel and there’s a brief moment where their fingers graze one another. It’s really barely any contact at all, but it sets Dean’s heart racing all the same. “You know how to work it?”

“I think I can figure out a camera.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, clearing his throat. From his pants pocket, he produces his homemade EMF reader and clicks it into the on position. A single click announces it’s working before the device falls silent.

Dean paces in the small circle of tealights. His attention keeps drifting back to Castiel who is wandering up and down the hallway holding the camera in front of his face and frowning.

“Something wrong with the camera?”

“I don’t see anything,” says Castiel.

“Yeah you take the pictures, sometimes it picks up stuff we can’t see with our eyes.”

“But what if they are just…”

“I get it, you don’t believe in it, I don’t believe in it, but I’m here, and I’m doing research for the book, so for the sake of people wanting to visit this place and do their  _own_ research, just…keep a lid on it. Take some damn pictures.”

Castiel nods and goes back to wandering slowly around the hall, his finger moving on the button more often.

A large rumble starts from the window and Dean rushes over to check out the disturbance. Below them, people are lined up forming a column. Everyone appears to be holding bubble wands.

“Looks like it’s almost midnight,” says Dean. He watches as the crowd grows and eventually everyone begins clapping and shouting to one another. Dean turns and almost bumps into Castiel and the camera.

“Whoa, C'mon, man,” says Dean, frowning as Castiel holds the camera up to Dean’s face level and presses the button. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be taking pictures.”

“I am taking pictures,” says Castiel.

“Yeah, pictures of paranormal activity…”

“To me, you look out of this world,” says Castiel.

Dean’s brow furrows as he takes in the statement, reaching up to pinch his temples. “Please tell me you’re not serious with that line.”

“I apologize,” says Castiel, canting his eyes back down to the camera still aimed at Dean. “I am out of practice when it comes to dating, as you are aware.”

“Yeah, I’m aware, since you can only seem to meet people by hiding who you are through a webcam.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” says Castiel, his body hovering closer to Dean’s in the dark hallway. “I value our friendship that we have built, and I’m sorry I didn’t come clean up front. I did what I thought was for the better good. Because I really like Wayward--and I really like Dean.”

“Okay, gross, you don’t need to get romantic about us jerking off on a webcam, man,” says Dean.

Castiel takes a step back and holds the camera up to his eye and looks through the viewfinder. He starts to click a serious of photographs taking in Dean’s suit.

“Okay, now what are you doing, Mapplethorpe…”

“Since when are you shy for the camera?” asks Castiel, staring into Dean’s eyes over the camera without shifting his aim. “You took some rather risque photos.”

“Yeah, well, they were classy though, black and white,” says Dean, smirking.

“I think you’re much better in living color.”

“Oh yeah?” asks Dean. He leans backward until his back hits the hallway wall. Castiel looks through the viewfinder as Dean reaches down to slowly drag his dress shirt up and out of his slacks, revealing a sliver of skin, glowing gold in the candlelight. “Maybe you kept your secret because you like it this way. You like to watch, huh?”

“I think maybe you like to be watched,” says Castiel, adjusting the camera as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“You took your share of pics, too,” says Dean, smirk still firmly in place. He’s wearing entirely too much clothing. And so is Castiel for that matter. Dean reaches down and fingers the last button on his dress shirt before they hear it.

A low hissing sound resounds in the hallway. Dean’s fingers still and Castiel’s back straightens where he still holds the camera.

“You hear that?” Dean whispers before he’s stopped by the sudden quivering of his own bottom lip. A chill runs down his spine, and he watches as Castiel experiences a similar shiver.

The candles flicker in unison, right as the EMF detector in Dean’s pocket begins to click ominously.

“Holy shit,” says Dean, heart racing from a deadly mixture of excitement and fear. “Are you seeing this?”

“An air conditioner kicked on,” says Castiel, though he sounds unsure of himself. Castiel turns the camera around in a full circle, clicking pictures as he moves.

They hear it at the same time and jump slightly. A rumbling noise, coming from the opposite end of the hallway. The darkest end. Dean’s fingers feel frozen and clumsy as he fumbles for his phone.

“Hello?” asks Dean, as the rumbling grows louder and louder until it comes to an end right as the lights flicker back on.

“Are you doing this?” asks Castiel, his voice just above a whisper.

“How could I…”

A sudden  _ding_ causes them to jump again. Realization settles in. Castiel keeps the camera trained at the end of the hall as he turns a sheepish grin toward Dean. “Only the elevator,” he whispers.

“Gah,” says Dean, grinning back at Castiel. “That really got me for a…”

The doors open slowly and in the pitch black at the end of the hallway a specter comes into view, definitely a woman, dressed all in white, glowing silver in the hallway. Her movements are strange as she hovers deeper into the hallway.

Then, she screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, who's stuck through with this fic, and sent me encouraging comments or messages. I am finished and going to explain at the end what happened. For now, here's another chapter! And it's got PORN!


	16. Flicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, I never meant to leave you guys on a cliffhanger I meant to have a double update but got a little nervous so here's the conclusion to the ghost hunt! And some porn!

“Well, there were still the lights,” says Dean, frowning at the five-foot-nothing hotel manager.

“This is the oldest part of the hotel, The original Campbell House was built in the eighteen hundreds and all the electrical components were added later. They’ve been updated over the years, but I’m afraid, especially in this part of the building, the wiring is in need of repair.”

“And the cold spots?” asks Dean.

“Same story with the air-conditioning—it wasn’t original with the house, obviously.”

“It’s an old building,” says Castiel, and Dean immediately glares at him as though he’s somehow siding with the short manager with her black suit dress and a maroon shirt.

“But how do you explain the EMF meter?” asks Dean, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“I’m sorry, your…” The manager’s smile is still firmly in place, but her eyes are shifty like she’s now doubting Dean’s sanity.

“You made it yourself,” says Castiel, his tone patient; nonjudgmental. “Perhaps there are some bugs in the design?”

Dean frowns, and the sound of quiet sniffling grows louder. He looks up in time to see the groom, still in his tuxedo, grinning widely as he offers his hand.

“Hey, man, no hard feelings, sorry she scared you,” says the groom, grinning somehow wider. “This is a story we’ll definitely be telling our grandkids.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry for the misunderstanding,” says Dean.

“Is there anything else?” asks the manager.

When Castiel and Dean shake their heads, she turns and begins talking to the bride, still sniffling in front of the Honeymoon Suite’s door. Her long, white dress looks very classic and modern when the lights are on, and less like a frightening specter.

Dean slowly makes his way toward the door across the hall and waits for Castiel to open the Presidential Suite. Castiel waits until the door clicks shut behind them before speaking.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What are you apologizing for this time?”

“The hunt,” says Castiel, frowning as he flips a switch and the antique lamps on the walls blink to life. “I have to admit, I was rather spooked when the bride walked out of the elevator.”

“Yeah, not as spooked as she was, apparently,” says Dean, shoving his hands through his hair. “Oh well, more wedding memories for them, and another failed ghost hunt for me.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a failure,” says Castiel, a strange smile turning up his lips. “There is definitely something old and eerie about this place. If even I can feel it, then it can’t be fake. The electricity flickers, the walls creak, and the elevator groans, anyone in search of the supernatural or haunted history would enjoy a visit here.”

“Damn, mind if I steal that for my book,” mutters Dean, trying to memorize Castiel’s phrasing. “And, look, I’m sorry, too.”

“For…”

“Running away,” says Dean, hanging his head. “I know it’s not the most mature reaction, but everything was overwhelming, and well…”

“It’s alright, Dean. I think we can both agree that we made some mistakes in this relationship.”

Dean sighs as he shrugs out of the rented suit jacket. He carefully hangs it on the back of a chair in the large Presidential Suite. The excessive room includes a sitting area with couch and recliners, a small dinette area, and a fully stocked kitchen. Double doors lead to a bedroom with a giant king-sized bed with a fluffy white comforter.

Despite the modern comforts and furniture, the suite retains an old world charm through antique artwork, light fixtures, and intricate rugs over wood flooring.

“You mind if I get out of this rented monkey suit?” asks Dean. His luggage was still down in the Impala, but after the ordeal in the hallway, the rental feels stifling.

Castiel politely diverts his eyes as Dean begins unbuttoning his shirt, starting with his wrists. Castiel removes his jacket, but not before fishing out the camera from earlier. He stands in just his dress shirt and slacks, staring at the camera, most likely reviewing the earlier photographs.

“This is a nice room,” says Dean, moving onto the buttons down the center of his white shirt. He watches Castiel closely as he continues to move down his chest, but he stops when Castiel tilts the camera up and snaps a picture of Dean with his shirt opened.

Dean laughs and pulls his shirt closed, a look of fake outrage on his face. “Hey, now, I’m not that kinda girl.”

“I think we’ve established you like being in front of the camera,” says Castiel, raising a single eyebrow without lowering the camera.

“Can’t really argue with that,” says Dean, a smirk in place as he resumes his work, unbuttoning the last buttons until he white shirt hangs open. Dean keeps his eyes locked on the camera lens as he removes his shirt, one roll of his shoulder at a time.

“Dean Winchester, I do believe you’re trying to seduce me,” says Castiel, behind the lens.

Dean pulls the shirt away from his body, folds it carefully, and lays it over the suit jacket on the back of the chair. “You got something I can borrow to sleep in?”

“What if I prefer you sleeping in whatever you have on under that suit,” says Castiel, the camera hanging forgotten as Castiel stares openly at Dean’s bare chest.

“Before we even make it to our first date?”

“This wasn’t our first hunt together,” says Castiel, staring into Dean’s eyes. “I hope it won’t be our last.”

“I guess I don’t mind you tagging along,” says Dean, hands moving down to his waistband, “considering how handy you are with that camera.” Dean meets Castiel’s eye and slowly wets his lips.

The movement crosses some threshold because Castiel drops the camera onto the suite’s couch and takes a bold step toward Dean. Rough hands grip Dean’s face before pulling him into a hard kiss.

The gentle kiss outside of the courthouse has nothing in common with the way Castiel kisses him then. His cheeks are scruffy and his lips soft as he kisses Dean, forcing his mouth open and slipping his tongue inside. All the excitement of finally kissing his crush combined with the roiling anxiety of kissing a friend.

Dean’s panting when the kiss breaks.

“I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time I saw your picture on the app,” says Castiel, reaching out toward Dean. His touch is tentative at first, fingertips barely grazing Dean’s side. Within seconds, the touch intensifies as Castiel drags his hand up Dean’s stomach and then chest before pausing and moving back down. Fingertips pause at the top of Dean’s slacks. “What color are they?”

Dean sways on his feet, already missing Castiel’s mouth on his and reeling to comprehend what he’s asking.

“Your panties, Dean,” says Castiel, his voice somehow registering lower, “what color are you wearing tonight?”

Dean’s throat goes completely dry. “Pink.”

“Show me,” says Castiel, retrieving the camera from the couch. He angles the camera down and reaches back for Dean’s waist.

Dean smirks, reaching down to unbutton and unzip his nice slacks. He carefully folds down one half of the front panel, revealing a sliver of pink satin visible.

“Don’t believe me?” asks Dean.

“No, I believe you,” says Castiel, snapping a picture of the obvious tease. “I’m happy, I finally get to see all of you, up close.”

Dean releases his pants and lets them slide down his legs, standing bare from the waist down on his bowed legs. The panties are pink satin with a tiny bow front and center. Castiel wastes no time snapping more pictures. Dean grabs himself through the thin, slippery fabric, squeezing his growing erection.

“You look so much better in person,” says Castiel, purposely staring around the camera.

“I feel the same way about you,” says Dean, frowning at Castiel’s fully clothed state. He starts to reach out, to tug at Castiel’s shirt, his tie—anything.

“Take out your dick,” says Castiel. “Now.”

Hands freeze not even half way to reaching out. Part of Dean wants to pout, to play hard to get, to complain that Castiel had been untruthful and didn’t deserve this private strip tease. But that part is quickly overruled by the part that wants obey that strict command. The part that’s wanted to perform for Thursday since the day they first spoke.

Dean pulls the waistband of his pink satin panties and pulls it down while adjusting with his other hand until the head of his cock protrudes. The rest of his shaft is visible, straining against the front of the pink panties.

“Mmm,” says Castiel, snapping another round of photographs. He reaches out and gropes Dean openly, taking pictures of his hand wrapped around the thick shaft encased in satin.

A soft moan escapes when Castiel touches him. Dean leaks over the top of his panties, unsure when he got so aroused just from touching. Though he quickly gives up trying to tally when the last time someone else had touched his cock. He’s needed this for far too long.

Dean rolls his hips into Castiel’s touch and bites his lip, only to open his eyes and discover Castiel is staring directly at his face instead of his crotch.

“All those photos you sent,” says Castiel, stroking his hand up and down, drawing out another string of needy noises. “You never sent me a picture of your face…”

“Obviously,” says Dean, his voice breathier than intended, “Internet stranger danger and all…”

“It’s understandable, but I still regret that I never got to see you make these expressions while touching yourself for me.”

And it’s a little strange, how closely Castiel is watching him—how sincere his gaze. But there’s nothing gentle about the hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, milking out more precome by the second. Dean’s helpless to gnaw on his lip and whine softly.

“I want…” Castiel starts before biting his tongue and shaking his head.

“I want you, too,” says Dean, leaning in to mouth at Cas’ jaw.

“I want to see the way your face looks with my dick in your mouth,” says Castiel, squeezing Dean’s cock firmly through the panties.

“Fuck yeah,” whines Dean, close to Castiel’s ear.

Dean pulls Castiel in for another kiss, reveling in the feeling of tongues sliding together. Excited at the thought of feeling more of Castiel. When the kiss breaks, Castiel pushes on Dean’s chest, urging him to sit down on the suite’s couch.

Dean plops down on the blue gingham sofa and works on kicking himself free from his pants still clinging to his ankles. Castiel pulls the camera back up and takes shots of Dean sitting in his panties with his cock peeking out.

“You look so good,” says Castiel, reaching down to rub across the scruff on Dean’s cheeks, thumbing at Dean’s lower lip. “I’ve imagined you like this so many times.”

Dean diverts his full attention to the fly of Castiel’s slacks. His fingers work quickly to undo the belt, button, and zipper, before gripping the sides of the pants and pulling down leaving Castiel standing in a pair of white boxer shorts.

Who wears plain white boxers anyways? So boring. But in the lamp light of the hotel suite, the underwear seem to glow invitingly. Dean pushes his face into the front of the boxers, quickly finding Castiel’s erection straining underneath.

“Have you wanted me since we first met?” asked Dean, mouthing through the thin fabric and nuzzling against Castiel’s erect cock. When there’s no immediate answer, Dean pulls back and stares up at Castiel, watching with dark, intense eyes.

“I was attracted to your photos, but I didn’t want you…for  _you_  until I knew you better,” says Cas, reaching down to gently cup Dean’s cheek. “I’ve known I wanted you for a while. But I thought you’d never want me.”

Dean hooks his fingers into the waistband of Castiel’s boxers as his answer. Castiel’s cock springs free, as big and thick advertised in Thursday’s pictures This close, Castiel’s imposing in the most exciting way. “How could anyone not want this?”

With a contented sigh, Dean leans forward and presses a kiss to the base of Castiel’s straining cock. It twitches under his lips. He scoots to the edge of the sofa, getting as close as possible and brings a hand up to grip Castiel’s cock and guide it toward his mouth.

Dean mouths along Castiel’s shaft, breathing hot against him, dragging his bottom lip. Smooth. Fevered. Dean’s eyes fly open at the first taste of skin. He glances up in time to see Castiel attempting to aim the camera while barely able to keep his hand steady.

Eyes remain locked as Dean takes the tip into his mouth, swirling his tongue across the slit there, pausing to kiss and lick thoroughly while Castiel moans, watching through the camera. Dean keeps his gaze focused on Castiel, not the lens. Though the pictures thrill him just as much as finally having Castiel’s cock in hand.

Leaning forward, Dean slowly takes Castiel into his mouth. Hot and heavy on his tongue, moving further down with each motion. His eyes flutter closed for a fraction of a second as he focuses on his work.

“God, you take that so well,” says Castiel, moaning with his upraised camera.

If only the camera took videos instead of only photos. Dean needs to record the sexy sounds spilling from Castiel’s lips. Stuttering and breathy.

Sounds caused by Dean, wrapping his lips around Castiel’s cock and pulling back, slowly. He moves until Castiel’s cock pulls free, glistening wet in the lamp light.

“You better not even think about sharing these with anyone,” says Dean.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Castiel, lowering the camera. “This view is just for me.” Castiel sets the camera out of the way on the couch. His hands immediately tangle into Dean’s short hair. “Open your mouth.”

“You were bossy like this on Skype,” says Dean, licking his lips and pumping his hand up and down Castiel’s length. “I liked it.”

“I know,” says Castiel, pressing into Dean’s touch. “I like to give you what you like.”

Right then, Dean likes Castiel’s cock in his mouth. He moves his mouth back down on Castiel, one hand braced on Castiel’s thick thigh. It flexes under Dean’s fingers as Castiel struggles to quickly remove his dress shirt, buttons popping from the force.

Their eyes meet again. Dean staring up with a mouth full of cock, and Castiel sliding out of his shirt. Staring down at Dean. Watching.

Fingers in Dean’s hair urge him further down. Until Castiel’s cock nudges the back of his throat and Dean’s choking. He pulls away for a breath, drool streaming from his mouth. Dean’s hand falls away from Castiel’s thigh and into his own lap where his cock leaks freely onto his panties. When Dean swallows Castiel down again, he uses his free hand to squeeze his own dick.

Dean stares up at Castiel in time to see him drop his head back, and moan. He pushes his hips forward in sharp thrusts. Dean hums around the cock in his mouth as he strips his own dick. The noise jerks Castiel’s attention back down to Dean, as though he can’t look away. Needs to capture everything—in his mind, if not on camera.

“Look at you,” says Castiel, breathless awe in his tone. “You can’t keep your hands off your cock while you’re sucking me off.”

Dean wants to answer, but his mouth is occupied and his hand is quickly bringing him to the edge. Instead, he lets his continued actions be his answer. His cheeks hollow as he sucks Castiel down.

“I’m going to come on your face,” says Castiel. It’s not a question, but Dean feels like he could object if somehow this hadn’t been his number one wet dream since he’d started talking to Thursday. To Castiel.

Instead of pulling away, Dean closes his eyes and continues to bob on Castiel. Fingers grip his hair tight, urging him faster. Deeper. Then, Castiel releases Dean moments before withdrawing and grabbing his own cock.

“Ready for it?” asks Castiel, standing above Dean, stroking his own cock. Watching Dean jerk off.

“That’s it,” says Dean, licking his lips and lowering his lids, “Mark me up good. I want it.”

Castiel groans, his fist tightening even while moving faster. Castiel’s jerking becomes erratic and his breathing tight. Dean knows to close his eyes and open his mouth. The first spray of hot come across the bridge of his nose precedes a deep groan from Castiel.

“Dean…”

The next spray crisscrosses his lips. Then right across his right eye, weighing down his lashes. Dean risks opening his eyes in time to see Castiel pumping the last dregs into his hand. Eyes still glued to Dean.

His climax rocks him to the core. As if it wasn’t hot enough watching Castiel jerk his big cock, and feeling his come coating his face--Castiel is watching him. Dean twitches with each fresh spurt, most dripping down his cock after the first few soil the hotel carpet.

“Your face is so sexy when you come,” says Castiel, wiping his hands clean on his dress shirt.

“You’re getting spunk on your dress shirt?!”

“I’ll get it cleaned, or buy a new one,” says Castiel, shrugging.

“Well, don’t get any on mine, it’s a rental,” says Dean.

“May I take a photo of you? Like this?” asks Castiel.

The question stops Dean from chuckling at his lame joke. Castiel retrieves the camera with his relatively clean hands, though he waits to aim.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” says Dean, licking his lips, still stained with Castiel’s handiwork.

Dean smiles slightly, mouth held slightly open and eyes half closed. Castiel hums appreciatively as he snaps a few photographs.

“Lemme see,” says Dean.

“Want to see what you look like covered in come?” asks Castiel, chuckling as he sets down the camera and retrieves his dirty shirt and hands it to Dean.

“Want to see how good you marked me,” says Dean, wiping his hands before dabbing at the mess on his face. The shirt makes a shitty towel, but it’ll have to do before Dean’s able to get to a bathroom.

Castiel’s nostrils flare and his breath catches. Dean’s never seen him look sexier.

The pictures are rather good. The quality far from professional on the cheap camera, but they’re okay. Castiel has a knack for setting up good composition, with Dean’s naked body on display, framed well. They’re sexy. And Dean has to consider whether it’s narcissistic that his spent cock twitches slightly as he reviews the photos—or is that self love? He decides he doesn’t care.

Castiel takes another picture while Dean’s lost in thought. Until the antique wall sconces in the suite begin to dim and flicker.

“What the hell?” asks Dean, looking around before the flickering stops as abruptly as it began.

“It’s an old part of the hotel,” says Castiel, a small smile creeping onto his face. “You do remember what the manager said? About the hotel?”

“Yeah, or maybe it’s a cover-up, for this place being fucking haunted. Some kinda pervert ghost, watching people fuck.”

Castiel laughs, naked except for his dress socks and shoes. Dean hadn’t noticed before that they’d stayed on, too lost in the moment. It’s a wonderful sight.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“I’m really glad you showed up,” says Dean, tucking himself back into his panties despite how ruined they are.

“Me too,” says Castiel, still smiling.

“Dean,” says Castiel, standing naked in the suite, walking to the bedroom where two terrycloth robes are spread across the end of the bed.

“Yeah?” asks Dean, pausing mid-stride on his way to the bedroom.

“I know this doesn’t mean you forgive me, and I’m not asking you to overlook the lies I omitted, but I am willing to work from here out to prove to you I can be trusted.”

“I already trust you,” says Dean, accepting a robe from Castiel. He stares meaningfully at the king-sized bed as he slides into the white robe.

“You trust me enough to share a bed?” asks Castiel, quirking an eyebrow as he slides ties the sash around himself.

“Hell yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, the boys continue talking, Dean finally calls Sam back, and disturbing news sends them racing home.


	17. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More quality time plus Dean calls Sam.

The hum of a ringing cell phone wakes Dean the next morning. He attempts to sit up and look around, but he’s pressed into the bed by a warm weight. Dean cranes his neck enough to spot an unruly mess of black hair laying on his chest.

Of course Castiel is a cuddler.

Not that Dean minds Castiel’s head resting on his chest. Nor the heat of his body pressed into Dean’s side through the thin sheets. No, Dean doesn’t mind this situation at all. Except for that damn ringing phone.

Castiel raises his head with a grumpy noise and, before Dean can protest, Castiel is out of bed, hunting down the humming noise. He picks up Dean’s pants from near the gingham couch, pulls out the phone, and plods back over to the bed.

Dean stares straight past the phone to where Castiel stands fully naked in the hazy light through the window.

“Uh, good morning, sunshine,” says Dean, slowly dragging his eyes up to Castiel’s face. Dean accepts the phone back, though the humming stops.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean sits up, pulling the white hotel sheets around his body. “Sleep alright?”

“Are you trying to ask if there were any more unexplained phenomena after you fell asleep?” asks Castiel.

“Was there?” asks Dean, yawning as he rakes his fingers through his sex hair. “I mean, other than this otherworldly sight in my bed.”

“Now who’s using ridiculous lines?” asks Castiel, but there’s a small smile on his face as he slides one of the plain white hotel robes around his nakedness. “Your phone has been ringing all morning. Obnoxiously.”

Dean hums, staring down at the offending device. “Yeah, gotta be Sammy.”

“You should call him,” says Castiel.

“You’re right,” says Dean, picking up the phone and staring at the screen before glancing up at Castiel. “Maybe I’ll go in the other room…”

“No need,” says Castiel, walking over to the door separating the bedrooms from the bathroom. “I’m going to shower.”

“Ah,” says Dean, smiling. “Thanks.”

Castiel smiles and Dean’s surprised at how comfortable he feels. It isn’t strange that they had sex the night before, officially moving their online relationship and friendship into something somehow weirder. Dean feels like he’s waking up with a friend. A naked friend.

“Of course,” says Castiel, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind himself.

Dean waits until he hears the noise of the shower before choosing Sam’s familiar number.

“Dean,” says Sam, before there’s even ringing over the line. “Where are you?”

“Hey, Sammy,” says Dean, smiling despite the immediate pang of guilt for having worried his little brother. “I’m fine. Listen, I’m in Kentucky…”

“Kentucky…you went to the Campbell House, I knew it!” says Sam, mumbling to himself. “Probably a mess of haunted history in that place.”

“Yeah, so far,” says Dean, clearing his throat as he holds the phone away enough to hear the steady spray of the shower from the other room. “I, um, Cas met up with me here.”

“That’s good, he was really worried when you ran off from the brewery,” says Sam. “He ran all the way to the house, looking for you, but you were already gone. I told him what we talked about, and I ended up getting the story out of him, about how he was Thursday.”

“Hey, don’t worry about all that, alright?”

“How can I not worry? I know how you detested Cas at the beginning, with the whole ‘gentrification is ruining our city’ thing, but you gotta admit, the more we hung out with him, I mean, Cas is pretty cool, and you two seemed to get along, and that’s before you knew he was…”

“I mean it, you don’t need to…”

“And Thursday! I mean, the fact that you talked to me about your online boyfriend can only mean you had some kinda feelings for him, too, and then it turns out, he’s Cas and Cas didn’t tell you, and you…”

“Would you shut the hell up?” asks Dean, sighing. “Cas and I are working it out. I’m serious, you don’t have to worry about this shit.”

“Sorry,” says Sam, sighing, “I guess I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it since you haven’t been returning my calls.”

“Yeah, my bad, but listen, don’t worry about me and Cas, we’re working it out, like big boys.”

“Good. I mean, great,” says Sam.

“But that’s not the important thing we need to talk about,” says Dean, laying back on the hotel bed and staring up at the ceiling. “I owe you an apology.”

“You know it’s always 'forgive and forget' with us,” says Sam.

“I know, but I owe you one anyways, because…” Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out in one rush, “…you were right.”

Sam’s on the line, breathing, but he says nothing for several heartbeats. “Uh, I’m right about a lot of things.”

“Yeah, and I rarely give you enough credit for it,” says Dean, forging ahead. “You were right about the taxes, we can’t afford them, and I should have talked to you about it, instead of trying to keep it to myself.”

“Well, thanks, Dean, I appreciate that.”

“And you were right, about selling the house.”

“If this is about what I told you, about mom…”

“It’s not about that,” says Dean, biting his lip. “I mean, it is about that, but not really. I’ve been attached to that place for all the wrong reasons, your little confession just made me see that. And I’m not mad at you, for not telling me the truth about what happened, you were a kid. It’s not your fault.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Dean knows he’s listening.

“I think we should consider selling because it’s the smart financial move,” says Dean, sighing. “I mean, we’re just two guys, it’s a huge place, and we can’t really afford to renovate and keep her up the way she needs, plus you’ll probably be wanting your own place, soon.”

“Dean…”

“No, you’re grown up, and you’re smarter than me, always have been, so you know it’s a good decision, selling the house.”

Sam’s silence says it all.

“We can get a good price, buy a new place, you’re welcome to be my roommate—or not, that’s up to you. And it’s cool that you got a job. Garth’s been asking to pick up some extra shifts at the tour, so this makes everyone happy. We’ll find a new fancy shop front somewhere closer to the ghost action.”

“Dean…”

Dean pauses to exhale. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

The shower in the bathroom shuts off, and in the silence, Dean can almost hear Sam’s smile.

“We’ll figure this out, together, as a team,” says Dean.

“Sounds good.”

“We’ll talk more about it when I get back in town.”

“Any idea when that will be?” asks Sam.

“Um, soon, got plenty of material to work with here, but uh, well, Cas just got out of the shower, so…”

“Oh… _oh_ , oh my god, when you said you and Cas were working it out, you meant…you guys are…”

The doorway opens and Castiel stands with a towel around his waist and water dripping from his dark hair, trailing down his chest in rivulets.

“Yeah,” is all Dean manages, “so, uh, talk soon. Bye.”

Sam probably says something in response, but Dean’s already ending the call and staring at Castiel. Morning light streams in through the hotel’s drapery, accentuating Castiel’s wet curves.

“Did you talk to Sam?” asks Castiel, grabbing a clean towel and using it to dab at his hair.

“Uhuh,” says Dean.

“Everything went alright?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, only about one octave too high.

“Shower’s all yours,” says Castiel, smirking.

* * *

Dean should make the water run cold. He is never going to be able to concentrate with Castiel standing naked just outside the bathroom door.

Sharing a bed had proved easy the night before because of their exhausting activities and the late hour. Waking up next to Castiel is proving to be more difficult since the man apparently wakes up with a gravelly voice and dark stubble looking disheveled and sexy.

The shower’s doing nothing to distract Dean’s thoughts. His hardon remains, unwavering, despite Dean ignoring it. He continues ignoring it as he washes. No need to jerk off in the shower when Castiel is right outside the door, naked, though possibly not for long.

Dean grabs the thin hotel towel and dries himself off then attempts to wrap the towel around his waist as elegantly as Castiel had managed. He’s still struggling when he opens the door and sees Castiel standing at the foot of the bed. The towel is long gone.

“Don’t bother covering up,” says Castiel, his voice a growling command. “There’s still more of you I want to see.”

The one command puts Dean’s blood on simmer. He obediently drops the towel and gives a cheeky smile. “I packed other panties.”

“I rather prefer you wearing nothing right now.” And damn if Castiel doesn’t cross the room in two steps and press their naked bodies together. He kisses Dean hard, hands clenching Dean’s shoulders tight enough to leave a mark.

“Shit,” mutters Dean when the kiss breaks long enough for breathing.

There’s no space between their bodies, dicks sliding against one another as Dean gulps breaths. Castiel cranes his neck to kiss along Dean’s neck, working his way toward Dean’s ear.

“Sit on the bed,” says Castiel, right against the shell of Dean’s ear.

And Dean wants to obey—needs to obey. But he kisses Castiel again, first, conveying his approval with his lips. They’re still kissing when Castiel begins to walk them to the bed, pressed together. Their tongues move together until the back of Dean’s knees hit the bed and Castiel gently pushes him backward into a sitting position.

Pictures often fail to capture how something will appear in motion. The graceful way Castiel stands, staring down at Dean. The way his muscles move as he leans forward and puts one hand on each of Dean’s knees, spreading them apart. Dean’s so entranced he almost misses the fact that he’s now sitting naked and spread in front of Castiel.

And Castiel reaches for something on the bed. The camera.

“Aren’t you going to get tired of that thing?” asks Dean, laughing nervously.

“I don’t think I could ever tire of you,” says Castiel, too sincere for the mood.

Dean blushes furiously, knowing full well the pink color extends well past his cheeks down his freckled body. If Castiel notices when he holds up the camera, it’s not mentioned as he quietly settles onto his knees on the floor between Dean’s spread thighs.

“You look so beautiful,” says Castiel, running his free hand up and down Dean’s thigh. “The real thing beats even the clearest picture.”

“Then why take the pictures?” asks Dean, hands behind him as he leans back, spreading his legs wider for Castiel. It’s almost comical how intently Castiel stares between Dean’s legs where his insistent erection stands proudly.

Castiel reaches out and loosely runs his hand up and down Dean’s shaft, smirking at the hiss it pulls out of Dean. “Because you deserve to be documented. And I’ve gotten such good use out of the pictures you provided previously. I’m ready to add something new to my collection.”

Fingers trail down Dean’s cock, teasing the wiry hair at the base, before venturing lower. Castiel caresses his balls, rolling them lazily in his hand as he leans closer until his breath is ghosting along Dean’s cock.

“I told you how badly I wanted to suck your dick during our conversations,” says Castiel, tongue tracing his lips as he watches Dean’s face.

Dean nods, wishing he wasn’t going to blush again. It’s a pointless wish.

“I didn’t tell you how many times I pleasured myself to your photos,” says Castiel, leaning forward to swipe his tongue across the underside of Dean’s cock.

Dean moans, as much from the thought of Castiel jerking off to his photographs as for the tongue on his cock.

“At work on my lunch break, it was sometimes impossible to resist pulling up one of your photographs and fantasizing about having you, just like this.”

Castiel surges forward and takes a substantial amount of Dean’s length into his mouth without flinching. The sudden rush of warmth is too much and Dean’s hips fly off the bed, seeking that heat. Too soon, it’s gone.

“C’mon,” says Dean, glaring down at a stone-faced Castiel. It takes a moment to realize he’s taking a picture with the camera, and not just staring intently down at Dean’s genitals.

“There’s something else I want to try,” says Castiel, his hands moving again to venture lower, trailing down his perineum before fingertips lightly brush against Dean’s opening.

Dean swallows his gasp, suddenly struggling to keep his cool. A fresh burst of precome leaks from his cock, dripping down onto his stomach. Castiel notices, and smirks.

“I want to eat you out, Dean,” says Castiel, fingers pushing more insistently against Dean’s hole, in case his meaning was somehow missed through the blunt statement.

“Hell yeah.”

Castiel’s hands slide down to hook behind Dean’s knees and he pushes Dean open further, pushing until Dean’s back curves upwards slightly giving Castiel a clear view of Dean’s ass. The look on his face is triumphant as he leans forward and tries the tip of his tongue to Dean’s rim.

And holy shit, Dean’s only imagined this ever happening to him. He’s not prepared for the first teasing flicks, or the gentle prodding, followed by Castiel flattening his tongue and licking at Dean’s hole.

The touches start out teasing. Light pressure circling his hole; gentle fingers pulling Dean’s cheeks apart. Then, insistent prodding as Castiel’s tongue pushes into Dean. Soft heat assaults Dean’s ass, causing him to clench and moan.

“Damn, Cas,” says Dean, labored. “Feels fucking amazing.”

“I want you spread and wet for me, Dean,” says Castiel, sitting back and bringing a finger to his lips. He holds Dean’s eye as he slowly sucks the finger into his mouth then moves the slick finger to Dean’s hole.

With the lightest pressure, Castiel presses inside. Dean’s back arches off the bed.

“Did you pack any lubricant?” asks Castiel, pushing his finger no deeper though Dean feels he’s wet enough. Dean voices his displeasure with a whine and a petulant roll of his hips.

“Did I bring any lubricant on a ghost hunt? No, I did not,” says Dean, panting out a laugh. “I wasn’t expecting some sexy project manager to hunt me down and want to fuck me.”

“From here out, you should always assume that,” says Castiel, his tone serious. “Lucky for us, I came considerably more prepared.”

Castiel retreats for a moment, gathering supplies. Dean’s left open and contorted on the bed, the cool air of the room meeting his spit-slicked opening.

“You didn’t move,” says Castiel, sitting back down with a tube of lubricant in hand. “You’re magnificent.”

Popping the cap, Castiel wets two of his fingers then lightly pushes his index finger against Dean’s rim. Light touches trace the sensitive skin along the edges before slipping inside.

Castiel sighs a moan as his finger sinks deeper into Dean. He pumps his finger a couple of times, twists it inside, then adds a second finger and repeats the process.

Dean’s fingered himself plenty of times but having someone else do it feels exponentially better. Especially the way Castiel’s fingers move inside, gliding easily.

It’s difficult when his back is curved but desperation urges Dean to push his hips up, fucking himself on Castiel’s fingers, and wishing for something more.

“You wanna fuck me, Cas?”

Castiel moans in answer, reaching for something near Dean’s head. “May I take a picture of you?”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, suddenly hyper-aware of exactly how exposed he is—how fully on display.

“Your ass looks so pretty, the way it clenches my fingers,” says Castiel, pausing to swallow as though his throat had suddenly lost all moisture. “I wish I could take an actual video of you. I thought about you on video with your toy so many nights.”

Dean moans, feeling suddenly so powerful for commanding Castiel’s attention so thoroughly. Plus, he’s always wondered what he would look like, spread around a cock. “Do it.”

“You’re sure?” asks Castiel, fingers freezing inside of Dean. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do…”

“I’m sure,” says Dean, rolling his hips up onto Castiel’s immobile hand. “And don’t stop.”

Castiel’s smile is devious as he reaches for the camera with the hand that isn’t deep in Dean’s ass. He adjusts his grip on the device as he pumps his fingers into Dean, snapping pictures while scissoring his hole. The stretch feels divine. Not enough.

“I want your cock inside of me,” says Dean, moaning as if the words surprise him.

“Soon,” says Castiel, before leaning forward, almost bending in half, in order to get Dean’s cock back into his mouth. Castiel sucks him down almost to the root, making it look effortless.

The wet heat feels impossibly good when combined with Castiel’s fingers pumping in and out of his ass. Especially when Castiel hooks his fingers and uses Dean’s own sensitive rim to pull him further down his throat.

“Fuck,” says Dean, hips moving in confused thrusts, unsure whether he wants to fuck down on Castiel’s fingers or up into his throat. He settles instead into a desperate pattern of chasing both sensations.

Castiel pulls off with a lewd popping sound, staring down intently at Dean. “Perfect.”

“More,” says Dean, causing Castiel’s eyes to snap up to meet his.

“Dean, we can go slow, we don’t need to…”

“What I need, right now, is your dick in my ass,” says Dean, pushing his hips down on Castiel’s hand to emphasize the point. And the point is well taken because Castiel drops the camera and hurriedly lubes up his own cock, red and angry at being ignored for so long.

Nerves flood Dean’s senses, unwanted and unstoppable. Even though he’s experimented with himself, knowing he’s about to take a real human cock feels intimidating. Not to mention Castiel’s considerable size. The crisp tear of a condom wrapper thickens the tension. The feeling of a blunt cockhead at his entrance has Dean’s hips flying off the mattress.

“You’re alright?” Castiel puts a hand on Dean’s hip, sliding a lubed hand up and down his own dick as he watches. “Having you here is more than enough, we don’t need…”

“Fuck me, Cas,” says Dean, making sure their eyes are locked.

Castiel pushes inside, so slow Dean wonders if anything’s even happening.

“Shh, relax,” whispers Castiel, staring down where they’re almost connected, fully captivated by the sight.

Dean stares down at Castiel watching him. The enthralled look on his face and the way it melts into a slack-jawed moan when Castiel’s cock finally breaches Dean’s opening.

“Dean,” Castiel chokes out the word as his hands clamp down on Dean’s hips, but he doesn’t move.

“Fuck yeah, baby, move like that,” says Dean, rolling his hips experimentally. He feels full in the best way, Castiel splitting him open, thick and heavy. And if he doesn’t start moving, Dean thinks he might go insane.

The first pull back is short, a gentle rocking that drags even with the lube. A broken moan is Dean’s response. The next thrust is smoother, a sensual roll. Then the rhythm begins, slow and gentle.

Castiel pants, adjusting his stance, creasing his brow, but always watching Dean.

“Take a picture,” says Dean.

Castiel’s eyes go wide. “You’re sure?”

“I wanna see myself stretched around your cock,” says Dean.

The camera’s back in Castiel’s hand and he aims it directly at Dean’s ass, he pulls out, slowly, taking a burst of photographs as he slides back inside with a deep groan.

“God, Dean, you look so good, so pink and stretched for me…”

“Fuck,” says Dean, hand flying between them to his own cock. He jerks his dick. Having Castiel inside of him, taking pictures of them together. It’s too much.

“I wish this was a video,” says Castiel, setting the camera back down and grabbing each of Dean’s thighs. “I wish I could watch you come for me, again and again.”

And then Dean’s groaning, clamping down around Castiel as a string of nonsense leaves his lips. He comes hard and fast, the first spray shooting all the way up to his chin before pumping the rest onto his stomach.

Castiel’s head drops back and his hips adopt a strange stuttering rhythm until he’s moaning. Dean feels Castiel twitching inside as he fills the condom.

“You’re amazing,” pants Castiel, releasing Dean’s legs and leaning forward into the mess created between their bodies. He kisses Dean, lips and eyes closed.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” says Dean, bringing a hand up to hold onto Castiel’s head, keeping him close as they both catch their breath.

“From Thursday?”

“From you.”

Castiel cracks open an eye, and Dean smiles.

“Do we really need to check-out today?” asks Dean, scratching his fingers through Castiel’s messy black hair.

“There’s no reason we can’t take our time getting back home,” says Castiel, punctuating his sentence with another kiss. “There’s still so much more of you I want to see.”

* * *

“How’d you get here, anyways?” asks Dean as they stand in the lobby, waiting on the next available representative to help them check-out.

“Chartered a flight,” says Castiel, standing straight in a buttoned shirt and his navy suit jacket draped over his arm. “Meg helped me get here as soon as possible.”

“That’s right, Meg,” says Dean. “Your beard.”

Castiel shrugs. “Meg’s an old friend. It’s not an arrangement either of us is opposed to, being friends and roommates. She balks some at her business responsibilities, but that’s to be expected. It’s Meg. She’ll understand, though, why I need to end the terms of our agreement.”

“Won’t your family have a problem with this, though?” asks Dean, gesturing between them with two fingers.

“No, Dean, my brothers and my father will not have a problem with us being a couple,” says Castiel, a quiet smile spreading on his face.

“Sorry,” says Dean, blushing before he can stop himself. “Was that…that was too fast, wasn’t it?”

“No,” says Castiel, shifting his weight to lean in closer to Dean. “I’d like to be in a relationship with you. As long as you’re amenable.”

“I’m definitely down,” says Dean, clearing his throat. “I mean, we were on a dating site looking for something more than a one-night stand.”

“You mentioned you were tired of that lifestyle,” says Castiel, smiling.

“I guess I hadn’t taken the time yet, to realize how nice it actually is that you are Thursday,” says Dean, returning the smile. “We already had the traditional conversations, even if in a rather untraditional way. And now I have someone I already know I’m attracted to, physically and mentally.”

“I regret the way we came to know about one another, that night at the brewery with Gabriel went…poorly. But I have no regrets about getting to know you.”

“Yeah, I’m glad we worked through it, and are going to uh, date, officially,” says Dean. “Your brothers really won’t have a problem with you?”

“My brothers have several problems with me, but not about who I choose to date.”

“That’s good,” says Dean, nodding. “Sam, he’s supportive, too. He knows I’ve dated men and women, but I don’t know why I kept it a secret I was looking for a guy. I told him about Thursday, but he had no way to know it was a dude and even less reason to suspect it was you.”

“I think everyone was a little surprised,” says Castiel.

The woman in front of them finally steps out of the way with all of her luggage. Castiel steps up to the cashier and begins talking, even as Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Dean picks up his phone and takes a step away from Castiel and the cashier.

“Missing me already? Cas and I decided to drive back home, we’re checking out, now.”

“Dean, oh my god, Dean, it’s…it’s all over the news,” says Sam.

“Uh, what exactly is all over the news?” asks Dean, recognizing the panicked, hollow quality in his brother’s voice. The type of inflection that had once told him their father wasn’t coming home from his beer run.

“It’s the Marshall House—it’s on fire!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter! But the next one is the last chapter that sums up the plot, then there's an epilogue, and we're through! Thanks for sticking with me

**Author's Note:**

> https://justapegacorn.tumblr.com/


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